The   Devourers 


The    Devourers 


By 

A.  Vivanti  Chartres 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
f&ntciurboeker 
1910 


COPYRIGHT,  1910,  BY 
A.   VIVANTI  CHARTRES 


•oc-. 


TO    MY    WONDERCHILD 

VIVIEN 

TO    READ    WHEN    SHE    HAS    WONDERCHILDREN 
OF    HER    OWN 


2134679 


PREFACE 

THEKE  was  a  man,  and  he  had  a  canary.  He  said, 
"  What  a  dear  little  canary !  I  wish  it  were  an  eagle." 
God  said  to  him :  "  If  you  give  your  heart  to  it  to  feed 
on,  it  will  become  an  eagle."  So  the  man  gave  his  heart 
to  it  to  feed  on.  And  it  became  an  eagle,  and  plucked 
his  eyes  out. 

There  was  a  woman,  and  she  had  a  kitten.  She  said : 
"  What  a  dear  little  kitten !  I  wish  it  were  a  tiger." 
God  said  to  her :  "  If  you  give  your  life's  blood  to  it  to 
drink,  it  will  become  a  tiger."  So  the  woman  gave  her 
life's  blood  to  it  to  drink.  And  it  became  a  tiger,  and 
tore  her  to  pieces. 

There  was  a  man  and  a  woman,  and  they  had  a  child. 
They  said :  "  What  a  dear  little  child  !  We  wish  it  were 
a  genius."  .  .  . 


vii 


BOOK  I 


THE  baby  opened  its  eyes  and  said :  "  I  am  hungry." 
Nothing  moved  in  the  silent,  shadowy  room,  and  the 
baby  repeated  its  brief  inarticulate  cry.  There  were 
hurrying  footsteps ;  light  arms  raised  it,  and  a  laughing 
voice  soothed  it  with  senseless,  sweet-sounding  words. 
Then  its  cheek  was  laid  on  a  cool  young  breast,  and  all 
was  tepid  tenderness  and  mild  delight.  Soon,  on  the 
wave  of  a  light-swinging  breath,  it  drooped  into  sleep 
again. 

.Edith  Avoryj  had  hurried  home  across  the  meadow 
from  the  children's  party  at  the  vicarage,  her  pendant 
plaits  flying,  her  straw  hat  aslant,  and  now  she  entered  the 
dining-room  of  the  Grey  House  fluttered  and  breathless. 

"  Have  they  come  ?  "  she  asked  of  Florence,  who  was 
laying  the  cloth  for  tea. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  answered  the  maid. 

"  Where  are  they  ?  Where  is  the  baby  ?  "  and,  with- 
out waiting  for  an  answer,  the  child  ran  out  of  the  room 
and  helter-skeltered  upstairs. 

In  front  of  the  nursery  she  stopped.  It  was  her  own 
room,  but  through  the  closed  door  she  had  heard  a  weak, 
shrill  cry  that  plucked  at  her  heart.  Slowly  she  opened 
the  door,  then  paused  on  the  threshold,  startled  and 
disappointed. 


2  THE  DEVOURERS 

Near  the  window,  gazing  out  across  the  verdant 
Hertfordshire  fields,  sat  a  large,  square-faced  woman  in 
pink  print,  and  on  her  lap,  face  downward,  wrapped  in 
flannel,  lay  a  baby.  The  nurse  was  slapping  it  on  the 
back  with  quick,  regular  pats.  Edith  saw  the  soles  of 
two  little  red  feet,  and  at  the  other  end  a  small,  oblong 
head,  covered  with  soft  black  hair. 

"  Oh  dear ! "  said  Edith.     "  Is  that  the  baby  ?  " 

"Please  shut  the  door,  miss,"  said  the  nurse. 

"  I  thought  babies  had  yellow  hair,  with  long  muslin 
dresses  and  blue  bows,"  faltered  Edith. 

The  square-faced  nurse  did  not  answer,  but  continued 
pat  —  pat  —  pat  with  her  large  hand  on  the  small  round 
back. 

Edith  stepped  a  little  nearer.  "  Why  do  you  do 
that?"  she  asked. 

The  woman  looked  the  little  girl  up  and  down  before 
she  answered.  Then  she  said,  "Wind,"  and  went  on 
patting. 

Edith  wondered  what  that  meant.  Did  it  refer  to 
the  weather  ?  or  was  it,  perhaps,  a  slangy  servant's  way 
of  saying,  "  Leave  me  alone  "  or  "  Hold  your  tongue  "  ? 

"  Has  the  baby's  mother  come  too  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  the  nurse;  "and  when  you  go  out,  will 
you  please  shut  the  door  behind  you  ?  " 

Edith  did  so. 

She  heard  voices  in  her  mother's  room,  and  looked  in. 
Sitting  near  her  mother  on  the  sofa  was  a  girl  dressed  in 
black,  with  black  hair,  like  the  baby's.  She  was  crying 
bitterly  into  a  small  black-edged  handkerchief. 

"  Oh,  Edith  dear,"  said  her  mother,  "  that's  right ! 
Come  here.  This  is  your  sister  Valeria.  Kiss  her,  and 
tell  her  not  to  cry." 


THE  DEVOURERS  3 

"But  where  is  the  baby's  mother?"  said  Edith, 
glad  to  gain  time  before  kissing  the  wet,  unknown 
face. 

The  girl  in  mourning  lifted  her  eyes,  dark  and  swim- 
ming, from  the  handkerchief.  "  It  is  me,"  she  said,  with 
a  swift,  shining  smile,  and  one  of  her  tears  rolled  into  a 
dimple  and  stopped  there.  "What  a  dear  little  girl 
for  my  baby  to  play  with ! "  she  added,  and  kissed  Edith 
on  both  cheeks. 

"  That  size  baby  cannot  play,"  said  Edith,  drying  her 
face  with  the  back  of  her  hand.  "  And  the  woman  was 
hitting  it ! " 

"Hitting  it ! "  cried  the  girl  in  black,  jumping  up. 

"  Hitting  it ! "  cried  Edith's  mother. 

And  they  both  hurried  out. 

Edith,  left  alone,  looked  round  the  familiar  room. 
On  her  mother's  bed  lay  a  little  flannel  blanket  like  the 
one  the  baby  was  wearing,  and  a  baby's  cap,  and  some 
knitted  socks,  and  a  rubber  rattle.  On  a  chair  was  a 
black  jacket  and  a  hat  trimmed  with  crape  and  dull 
black  cherries.  Edith  squeezed  one  of  the  cherries, 
which  broke  stickily.  Then  she  went  to  the  looking- 
glass  and  tried  the  hat  on.  Her  long  small  face  looked 
back  at  her  gravely  under  the  caliginous  head-dress,  as 
she  shook  her  head  from  side  to  side,  to  make  it  totter 
and  tilt.  "  When  I  am  a  widow  I  shall  wear  a  thing  like 
this,"  she  said  to  herself,  and  then  dropped  it  from  her 
head  upon  the  chair.  She  quickly  squeezed  another 
cherry,  and  went  out  to  look  at  the  baby. 

It  was  in  the  nursery  in  its  grandmother's  arms, 
being  danced  up  and  down ;  its  fist  was  in  its  mouth, 
and  its  large  eyes  stared  at  nothing.  Its  mother,  the 
girl  in  black,  was  on  her  knees  before  it,  clapping  her 


THE  DEVOUKERS 

^  I  hands  and  saying:  "Cara!  Cara!  Cara!  Bella!  Bella! 
Bella  ! "  Wilson,  the  nurse,  with  her  back  to  them,  was 
emptying  Edith's  chest  of  drawers,  and  putting  all 
Edith's  things  neatly  folded  upon  the  table,  ready  to 
be  taken  to  a  little  room  upstairs  that  was  henceforth 
to  be  hers.  For  the  baby  needed  Edith's  room. 

The  little  girl  soon  tired  of  looking,  and  went  down 
to  the  garden.  Passing  the  verandah,  she  could  hear  the 
gardener  laughing  and  talking  with  Florence.  He  was 
saying : 

*^.  "  Now,  of  course,  Miss  Edith's  nose  is  quite  put  out 
of  joint." 

Florence  said :  "  I'm  afraid  so,  poor  lamb !  " 

Edith  ran  to  the  shrubbery,  and  put  her  hand  to  her 
nose.  It  did  not  hurt  her;  it  felt  much  the  same  as 
usual.  Still,  she  was  anxious  and  vaguely  disturbed. 
"  I  must  tell  the  Brown  boy,"  she  said,  and  went  to  the 
kitchen-garden  to  look  for  him. 

There  he  was,  on  his  knees,  patting  mould  round  the 
strawberry-plants ;  a  good  deal  of  earth  was  on  his  face 
and  in  his  rusty  hair. 

"  Good-evening,"  said  Edith,  stopping  near  him,  with 
her  hands  behind  her. 

"  Hullo ! "  said  the  gardener's  boy,  looking  up. 

"  They've  come,"  said  Edith. 

"  Have  they  ?  "  and  Jim  Brown  sat  back  on  his  heels 
and  cleaned  his  fingers  on  his  trousers. 

"  The  baby  is  black,"  said  Edith. 

"  Sakes  alive ! "  said  Jim,  opening  large  light  eyes  that 
seemed  to  have  dropped  into  his  face  by  mistake. 

"  It  has  got  black  hair,"  continued  Edith,  "  and  a  red 
face." 

"  Oh,  Miss  Edith,  you  are  a  goose ! "  said  the  Brown 


THE  DEVOUKERS  5 

boy.     "That's  all  right.     I  thought  you  meant  it  was 
all  black,  because  of  its  mother  being  a  foreigner." 

Edith  shook  her  head.  "It's  not  all  right.  Babies 
should  have  golden  hair." 

"  What  is  the  mother  like  ?  "  asked  Jim. 

"She's  black,  too;  and  the  nurse  is  horrid.  And 
what  is  the  matter  with  my  nose  ?  " 

"  Eh  ?  "  said  Jim  Brown. 

"  Yes.     Look  at  my  nose.     What's  wrong  with  it  ?  " 

The  Brown  boy  looked  at  it.  Then  he  looked  closer. 
Little  by  little  an  expression  of  horror  came  over  his 
face.  "  Oh ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  Oh  my !  Just  think 
of  it ! " 

"What?  What  is  it?"  cried  Edith.  "It  was  all 
right  just  now."  And  as  the  boy  kept  staring  at  her 
nose  with  growing  amazement,  she  screamed :  "  Tell  me 
what  it  is !  Tell  me,  or  I'll  hit  you ! " 

Then  the  Brown  boy  got  up  and  danced  round  her  in 
a  frenzy  of  horror  at  what  was  the  matter  with  her  nose ; 
so  she  took  a  small  stone  and  threw  it  at  him.  Where- 
upon he  went  back  to  his  strawberry-plants,  and  declined 
to  speak  to  her  any  more. 

When  he  saw  her  walking  forlornly  away  with 
her  hand  to  her  nose,  and  her  two  plaits  dangling 
despondently  behind,  he  felt  sorry,  and  called  her 
back. 

"I  was  only  larking,  Miss  Edith.  Your  nose  is  all 
right."  So  she  was  comforted,  and  sat  down  on  the 
grass  to  talk  to  him. 

"Valeria  speaks  Italian  to  the  baby,  and  they  have 
come  to  stay  always,"  she  said.  "  The  baby  is  going  to 
have  my  room,  and  I  am  going  to  be  upstairs  near 
Florence.  We  are  all  going  to  dress  in  black,  because  of 


6  THE  DEVOUREKS 

my  brother  Tom  having  died.  And  mamma  has  been 
crying  about  it  for  the  last  four  days.  And  that  baby 
is  my  niece." 

"Your  brother,  Master  Tom,  was  the  favourite  with 
them  all,  wasn't  he  ?  "  said  Jim. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Edith.  "  There  were  so  many  of  us 
that,  of  course,  the  middle  ones  were  liked  best." 

"  I  don't  quite  see  that,"  said  Jim. 

"  Oh,  well,"  explained  Edith,  "  I  suppose  they  were 
tired  of  the  old  ones,  and  did  not  want  the  new  ones,  so 
that's  why.  Anyhow,"  she  added,  "it  doesn't  matter. 
They're  all  dead  now." 

Then  she  helped  him  with  the  strawberry-plants  until 
it  was  time  for  tea. 

Her  grandfather  came  to  call  her  in  —  a  tall,  stately 
figure,  shuffling  slowly  down  the  gravel  path.  Edith 
ran  to  meet  him,  and  put  her  warm  fingers  into  his  cool, 
shrivelled  hand.  Together  they  walked  towards  the 
house. 

"Have  you  seen  them,  grandpapa?"  she  asked, 
curvetting  round  him,  as  he  proceeded  at  gentle  pace 
across  the  lawn. 

"  Seen  whom,  my  dear  ?  "  asked  the  old  gentleman. 

"  Valeria  and  the  baby." 

"  What  baby  ?  "  said  the  grandfather,  stopping  to  rest 
and  listen. 

"Why,  Tom's  baby,  grandpapa,"  said  Edith.  "You 
know  —  the  baby  of  Tom  who  is  dead.  It  has  come  to 
stay  here  with  its  mother  and  nurse.  Her  name  is 
Wilson." 

"  Dear  me ! "  said  the  grandfather,  and  walked  on  a 
few  steps. 

Then  he  paused  again.     "  So  Tom  is  dead." 


THE  DEVOURERS  7 

"  Oh,  you  knew  that  long  ago.     I  told  you  so." 

"So  you  did,"  said  the  old  gentleman.  He  took  off 
his  skullcap,  and  passed  his  hand  over  his  soft  white 
hair.  "Which  Tom  is  that  —  my  son  Tom  or  his  son 
Tom  ?  " 

"Both  Toms,"  said  Edith.  "They're  both  dead. 
One  died  four  days  ago,  and  the  other  died  six  years  ago, 
and  you  oughtn't  to  mix  them  up  like  that.  One 
was  my  papa  and  your  son,  and  the  other  was  his 
son  and  the  baby's  papa.  Now  don't  forget  that 
again." 

"No,  my  dear,"  said  the  grandfather.  Then,  after 
a  while :  "  And  you  say  his  name  is  Wilson  ?  " 

"  Whose  name  ?  "  exclaimed  Edith. 

"  Why,  my  dear,  how  should  I  know  ? "  said  the 
grandfather. 

Then  Edith  laughed,  and  the  old  gentleman  laughed 
with  her. 

"Never  mind,"  said  Edith.  "Come  in  and  see  the 
baby  —  your  son  Tom's  son's  baby." 

"Your  son's  Tom's  sons,"  murmured  the  grand- 
father, stopping  again  to  think.  "Tom's  sons  your 
son's  Tom's  sons.  .  .  .  Where  do  I  put  in  the  baby  ?  " 

Edith  awoke  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  listening  and 
alert.  "  What  is  that  ?  "  she  said,  sitting  up  in  bed. 

Florence's  voice  came  from  the  adjoining  room :  "  Go 
to  sleep,  my  lamb.  It's  only  the  baby." 

"  Why  does  it  scream  like  that  ?  " 

"It  must  have  got  turned  round  like,"  explained 
Florence  sleepily. 

"Then  why  don't  they  turn  it  straight  again?" 
asked  Edith. 


8  THE  DEVOURERS 

"  Oh,  Miss  Edith,"  replied  Florence  impatiently,  "  do 
go  to  sleep.  When  a  baby  gets  '  turned  round,'  it 
means  that  it  sleeps  all  day  and  screams  all  night." 

And  so  it  did. 


n 

A  GENTLE  blue  February  was  slipping  out  when  March 
tore  in  with  screaming  winds  and  rushing  rains.  He 
pushed  the  diffident  greenness  back,  and  went  whistling 
rudely  across  the  lands.  The  chilly  drenched  season 
stood  still.  One  morning  Spring  peeped  round  the 
corner  and  dropped  a  crocus  or  two  and  a  primrose  or 
two.  She  whisked  off  again,  with  the  wind  after  her, 
but  looked  in  later  between  two  showers.  And  sud- 
denly, one  day,  there  she  was,  enthroned  and  garlanded. 
Frost-spangles  melted  at  her  feet,  and  the  larks  rose. 

Valeria  borrowed  Edith's  garden-hat,  tied  it  under  her 
chin  with  a  black  ribbon,  and  went  out  into  the  young 
sunshine  across  the  fields.  Around  her  was  the  gloss  of 
recent  green,  pushing  upwards  to  the  immature  blue  of 
the  sky.  And  Tom,  her  husband,  was  dead. 

Tom  lay  in  the  dark,  away  from  it  all,  under  it  all,  in 
the  distant  little  cemetery  of  Nervi,  where  the  sea  that 
he  loved  shone  and  danced  within  a  stone' s-throw  of  his 
folded  hands. 

Tom's  folded  hands !  That  was  all  she  could  see  of 
him  when  she  closed  her  eyes  and  tried  to  recall  him. 
She  could  not  remember  his  face.  Try  as  she  would, 
shutting  her  eyes  with  concentrated  will,  the  well- 
known  features  wavered  and  slipped  away;  and 
nothing  remained  before  her  but  those  dull  white  hands 


THE   DEVOURERS  9 

as  she  had  seen  them  last  —  terrible,  unapproachable 
hands ! 

Were  those  the  hands  Tom  was  so  particular  about 
and  rather  vain  of  —  the  hands  she  had  patted  and  laid 
her  cheek  against  ?  Were  those  hands  —  fixed,  cessated, 
all-relinquishing  —  the  hands  that  had  painted  the 
Italian  landscapes  she  loved,  and  the  other  pictures  she 
hated,  because  in  them  all  stood  Carlotta  of  Trastevere, 
rippling-haired,  bare,  and  deliberate?  Were  those  the 
hands  that  had  rowed  her  and  Uncle  Giacomo  in  the 
little  boat  Luisa  on  the  Lake  Maggiore  ?  —  the  hands 
that  had  grasped  hers  suddenly  at  the  Madonna  del 
Monte  the  day  she  had  put  on  her  light  blue  dress,  with 
the  sailor  collar  and  scarlet  tie  ?  She  seemed  to  hear 
him  say,  with  his  droll  English  accent :  "  Volete  essere 
sposina  mia  ?  "  And  she  had  laughed  and  answered  him 
in  the  only  two  English  words  she  knew,  and  which  he 
himself  had  taught  her  across  the  table  d'hSte  :  "  Please ! 
Thank  you ! "  Then  they  had  both  laughed,  until  Zio 
Giacomo  had  said  that  the  Madonna  would  punish 
them. 

The  Madonna  had  punished  them.  She  had  struck 
him  down  in  his  twenty-sixth  year,  a  few  months  after 
they  were  married,  shattering  his  youth  like  a  bubble  of 
glass.  Valeria  had  heard  him,  day  after  day,  night 
after  night,  coughing  his  life  away  in  little  hard  coughs 
and  clearings  of  his  throat ;  then  in  racking  paroxysms 
that  left  him  breathless  and  spent ;  then  in  a  loose,  easy 
cough  that  he  scarcely  noticed.  They  had  gone  from 
Florence,  where  it  was  too  windy,  to  Nervi,  where  it 
was  too  hot;  from  Nice,  where  it  was  too  noisy,  to 
Airolo,  where  it  was  too  dull ;  then,  with  a  rush  of  hope, 
with  hurried  packing  of  coats  and  shawls,  of  paint- 


10  THE  DEVOURERS 

brushes  and  colours,  of  skates  and  snowshoes,  they  had 
journeyed  up  to  Davos.  And  there  the  sun  shone,  and 
the  baby  was  born ;  and  Tom  Avory  went  skating  and 
bob-sleighing,  and  gained  six  pounds  in  eight  weeks. 

Then  one  day  an  American  woman,  whose  son  was 
dying,  said  to  Valeria  :  "  It  is  bad  for  your  baby  to  stay 
up  here.  Send  her  away,  or  when  she  is  fifteen  she  will 
start  coughing  too." 

"  Send  her  away ! "  Yes,  the  baby  must  be  sent 
away.  The  deadly  swarm  of  germs  from  all  the  stricken 
lungs  seemed  to  Valeria  to  envelope  her  and  her  child 
like  a  cloud  — the  cloud  of  death.  She  could  feel  it,  see 
it,  taste  it.  The  smell  of  it  was  on  her  pillow  at  night ; 
the  sheets  and  blankets  exhaled  it;  her  food  was  im- 
pregnated with  it.  She  herself  was  full-grown,  and 
strong  and  sound ;  but  her  baby  —  her  fragile,  rosebud 
baby  —  was  Tom's  child,  too !  All  Tom's  brothers  and 
sisters,  except  one  little  girl  called  Edith,  who  was  in 
England,  had  died  in  their  adolescence  —  one  in  Bourne- 
mouth ;  one  in  Torquay ;  one  in  Cannes ;  one,  Tom's 
favourite  sister,  Sally,  in  Nervi  —  all  fleeing  from  the 
death  they  carried  within  them.  Now  Davos  had  saved 
Tom.  But  the  baby  must  be  sent  away. 

They  consulted  three  doctors.  One  said  there  was  no 
hurry ;  another  said  there  was  no  danger  ;  the  third  said 
there  was  no  knowing. 

Valeria  and  Tom  determined  that  they  would  not  take 
risks.  One  snowy  day  they  travelled  down  to  Land- 
quart.  There  Tom  was  to  leave  them  and  return  to 
Davos.  But  the  baby  was  crying,  and  Valeria  was 
crying ;  so  Tom  jumped  into  the  train  after  them,  and 
said  he  would  see  them  as  far  as  Zurich,  where  Uncle 
Giacomo  would  be  waiting  to  take  them  to  Italy. 


THE   DEVOURERS  11 

"Then  you  will  be  all  right,  helpless  ones,"  he  said, 
putting  his  arm  round  them  both,  as  the  little  train 
carried  them  down  towards  the  mists.  And  he  gave  his 
baby-girl  a  finger  to  clutch. 

But  Tom  never  reached  Zurich.  What  reached  Zurich 
was  stern  and  awful,  with  limp,  falling  limbs  and  blood- 
stained mouth.  The  baby  cried,  and  Valeria  cried,  and 
crowds  and  officials  gathered  round  them.  But  Tom 
could  help  his  helpless  ones  no  more. 

His  will  was  found  in  his  breast-pocket.  "  Sposina  mia, 
with  all  my  worldly  goods  I  thee  endow.  Take  our 
baby  to  England.  Bury  me  in  Nervi,  near  Sally.  I 
have  been  very  happy.  —  TOM." 

These  things  Valeria  Avory  remembered  as  she  walked 
in  the  soft  English  sunshine,  crying  under  Edith's 
garden-hat.  When  she  reached  a  little  bridge  across  an 
angry  stream,  she  leaned  over  the  parapet  to  look  at  the 
water,  and  the  borrowed  hat  fell  off  and  floated  away. 

Valeria  ran  down  the  bank  after  it,  but  it  was  in  mid- 
stream, resting  lightly  against  a  protruding  stone.  She 
threw  sticks  and  pebbles  at  it,  and  it  moved  off  and  sailed 
on,  with  one  black  ribbon,  like  a  thin  arm,  stretched 
behind  it.  Valeria  ran  along  the  sloping  bank,  sliding  on 
slippery  grass  and  wet  stones ;  and  the  hat  quivered  and 
curtseyed  away  buoyantly  on  the  miniature  waves. 
When  the  stream  elbowed  off  towards  the  wood,  the  hat 
bobbed  along  with  it,  and  so  did  Valeria.  As  she  and  the 
stream  and  the  hat  turned  the  corner,  she  heard  an 
exclamation  of  surprise,  and,  raising  her  flushed  face,  she 
saw  a  young  man,  in  grey  tweeds,  fishing  on  the  other 
side  of  the  water. 

The  young  man  said:  "Hang  it  all!  Good-bye, 
trout ! "  And  Valeria  said :  "  Can  you  catch  my  hat  ?  " 


12  THE  DEVOURERS 

He  caught  it  with  great  difficulty,  holding  it  with  the 
thick  end  of  his  rod,  and  flattering  it  towards  him  with 
patient  manoeuvres. 

"  My  trout ! "  he  murmured.  "  I  had  been  after  that 
fat  fellow  for  three  days."  Then  he  dragged  the  large 
splashing  hat  out  of  the  water  and  held  it  up.  "  Here's 
your  hat."  It  had  never  been  a  beautiful  hat ;  it  was  a 
dreary-looking  thing  that  Edith  had  had  much  wear  out 
of.  It  had  not  the  appearance  of  a  hat  worth  fishing 
three  days  for. 

"  Oh,  thank  you  so  much !  How  shall  I  reach  it  ?  " 
said  Valeria,  extending  a  small  muddy  hand  from  her 
side  of  the  stream. 

"I  suppose  I  must  bring  it  across,"  said  the  young 
man,  still  holding  the  dripping  adornment  at  arm's 
length. 

"  Oh  no ! "  said  Valeria.     "  Throw  it." 

The  young  man  laughed,  and  said:  "Don't  try  to 
catch!  It  will  give  you  a  cold."  He  flung  the  hat 
across,  and  it  fell  flat  and  sodden  at  Valeria's  feet. 

"Oh  dear!"  she  said,  picking  it  up,  with  puckered 
brows,  while  the  black  tulle  ruffles  fell  from  it,  soft  and 
soaking.  "  What  shall  I  do  with  it  now  ?  I  can't  put 
it  on.  And  I  don't  think  I  can  carry  it,  walking  along 
these  slippery  banks." 

"Well,  throw  it  back  again,"  said  the  young  man, 
"  and  I'll  carry  it  for  you." 

So  she  threw  the  heavy  melancholy  thing  at  him,  and 
they  walked  along,  with  the  water  between  them, 
smiling  at  each  other.  On  the  bridge  they  met,  and 
shook  hands. 

"  I  am  sorry  about  your  fishes,"  she  said. 

"  My  fishes  ?  "     He  laughed.     "  Oh,  never  mind  them. 


THE  DEVOURERS  13 

I  am  sorry  about  your  hat."  Then,  noting  the  damp 
ringlets  on  her  forehead  and  the  dimple  in  her  cheek, 
he  added:  "What  will  you  put  on  when  you  come 
to-morrow  ?  " 

"  To-morrow  ?  "  she  asked,  raising  simple  eyes. 

"  Yes ;  will  you  ? "  he  said,  blushing  a  little,  for  he 
was  very  young.  "At  this  time"  —  he  looked  at  his 
watch  —  "  about  eleven  o'clock  ?  " 

Valeria  blushed,  too  —  a  sudden  crimson  flush  that  left 
her  face  white  and  waxen.  "  Is  it  eleven  o'clock  ?  "  she 
exclaimed.  "  Are  you  sure  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  The  baby ! "  gasped  Valeria.  "  I  had  forgotten  the 
baby ! "  And  she  turned  and  ran  down  the  bridge  and 
across  the  fields,  her  black  gown  flying,  the  wet  hat 
flapping  at  her  side. 

She  reached  home  breathless.  The  nurse  was  on  the 
verandah,  waiting.  "  Am  I  late,  Wilson  ?  "  she  panted. 

"  Yes,  madam,"  said  the  nurse,  with  tight  and  acid  lips. 

"  How  is  baby  ?  "  gasped  Valeria. 

"  The  baby,"  said  the  woman,  gazing  at  her,  sphinx- 
like  and  severe,  "  is  hungry." 


in 

THE  young  man  went  to  fish  in  the  little  stream  every 
day,  but  he  only  caught  his  fat  trout.  The  dimpled  girl 
in  mourning  did  not  come  again.  His  holiday  was 
ended,  and  he  returned  to  his  rooms  in  London,  but  he 
left  a  love-letter  for  Valeria  on  the  bank,  pinned  to  the 
crumpled  black  ruffle  that  had  fallen  off  her  hat,  and 
with  a  stone  on  it  to  keep  it  down. 


14  THE  DEVOUREKS 

Valeria  found  the  love-letter.  She  had  stayed  indoors 
a  week,  repenting.  Then  Spring  and  her  youth  joined 
hands,  and  drew  her  out  of  doors  and  across  the  fields 
again.  She  went,  blushing  and  faltering,  with  a  bunch 
of  violets  pinned  at  her  belt.  No  one  saw  her  but  a 
tail-flicking,  windy-haired  pony  in  a  meadow,  who 
frisked  suddenly  after  her  and  made  her  shiver. 

Close  to  the  stream  her  eye  caught  the  tattered  black 
ruffle  and  the  note  pinned  to  it.  The  young  man  wrote 
that  his  name  was  Frederick  Allen ;  that  he  was  reading 
for  the  Bar  and  writing  for  newspapers.  He  said  that 
she  had  haunting  eyes,  and  that  they  would  probably 
never  meet  again.  He  wondered  whether  she  had 
found  the  baby,  and  where  she  had  forgotten  it,  and 
what  baby  it  was.  And  she  might  have  turned  round 
just  once  to  wave  him  farewell !  He  hoped  she  would 
not  be  displeased  if  he  said  that  he  loved  her,  and 
would  never  forget  her.  Would  she  tell  him  her  name  ? 
Only  her  name  !  Please,  please !  He  was  hers  in  utter 
devotion,  FKEDERICK. 

Valeria  went  back  in  a  dream  and  looked  up  the 
word  "  haunting "  in  her  English-Italian  Dictionary. 
She  did  not  remember  his  eyes:  they  were  blue,  she 
thought,  or  perhaps  brown.  But  his  face  was  clear  and 
sunburnt,  and  his  smooth-parted  hair  was  bright  when 
he  took  off  his  hat  on  the  bridge. 

She  thought  she  would  simply  return  his  letter.  Then 
she  decided  that  she  would  add  a  few  words  of  rebuke. 
Finally  one  rainy  day,  when  everybody  had  seemed  cross, 
and  Edith  had  answered  rudely,  and  the  baby  had 
screamed  for  Wilson  who  was  not  there,  Valeria,  with 
qualms  and  twinges,  took  a  sheet  of  paper  and  wrote 
her  name  on  it.  The  paper  had  a  black  border.  Valeria 


THE   DEVOURERS  15 

suddenly  fell  on  her  knees  and  kissed  the  black  border, 
and  prayed  that  Tom  might  forgive  her.  Then  she 
burned  it,  and  went  to  her  baby,  who  was  quarrelling 
with  everything  and  trying  to  kill  an  India-rubber  sheep. 
Yet  one  day  in  April  —  an  April  swooning  with  soft 
suggestions,  urging  its  own  evanescence  and  the  fleeting 
sweetness  of  life  —  Mr.  Frederick  Allen,  in  his  London 
lodgings,  received  two  letters  instead  of  one.  Hannah, 
the  pert  maid  who  brought  them  to  his  room,  lingered 
while  he  opened  them.  In  the  first  was  a  cheque  for  six 
guineas  from  a  periodical;  in  the  other  was  a  visiting- 
card: 

VALERIA  NINA  AVOBT. 

"  Who  the  dickens  .  .  .  ?  "  he  said,  turning  the  card 
over.  "  Here ! "  and  he  threw  it  across  to  Hannah. 
"Here's  a  French  modiste,  or  something,  if  you  want 
falals ! " 

Then,  as  he  had  received  six  guineas  when  he  had  only 
expected  four,  he  shut  up  his  law-book,  pinched  Hannah's 
cheek  en  passant,  and  went  out  for  a  day  up  the  river 
with  the  man  next  door. 

The  card  was  thrown  into  the  coal-box,  and  the 
kitchen-maid  burnt  it.  And  that  is  all. 

April  brought  the  baby  a  tooth. 

May  brought  it  another  tooth,  and  gave  a  wave  to 
its  hair.  June  took  away  its  bibs,  and  gave  it  a  smile 
with  a  dimple  copied  from  Valeria's.  July  brought  it 
short  lace  frocks  and  a  word  or  two.  August  stood  it 
upright  and  exultant,  with  its  back  to  the  wall;  and 
September  sent  it  tottering  and  trilling  into  its  mother's 
arms. 


16  THE   DEVOURERS 

Its  iiame  was  Giovanna  Desiderata  Felicita. 

"I  cannot  remember  that,"  said  the  grandfather. 
"  Call  him  Tom." 

"  But,  grandpapa,  it  is  a  girl,"  said  Edith. 

"  I  know,  my  dear.  You  have  told  me  so  before," 
said  the  old  gentleman  testily.  He  had  become  very 
irritable  since  there  had  been  so  much  noise  in  the  house. 

"  Well,  what  girl's  name  can  you  remember  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Avory,  patting  her  old  father's  hand,  and  frowning 
at  her  daughter,  Edith. 

"  None  —  none  at  all,"  said  the  old  man. 

"  Come  now,  come  now,  dear ! "  said  Mrs.  Avory. 
"  Can  you  remember  Annie,  or  Mary  ?  " 

"  No,  I  cannot,"  said  her  father. 

Then  Edith  suggested  "  Jane,"  and  Valeria  "  Camilla." 
And  Florence,  who  was  laying  the  cloth,  said :  "  Try 
him  with  'Nellie'  or  'Katy.'"  But  the  old  gentleman 
peevishly  refused  to  remember  any  of  those  names. 

And  for  months  he  called  the  baby  Tom. 

One  day  at  dinner  he  said :  "  Where  is  Nancy  ?  " 

Mrs.  Avory  and  Edith  glanced  at  each  other,  and 
Valeria  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"  Where  is  Nancy  ? "  repeated  the  grandfather  im- 
patiently. 

Mrs.  Avory  coughed.  Then  she  laid  her  hand  gently 
on  his  sleeve.  "  Nancy  is  in  heaven,"  she  said  softly. 

"  What !  "  cried  the  old  gentleman,  throwing  down  his 
table-napkin  and  glaring  round  the  table. 

"  Your  dear  little  daughter  Nancy  died  many,  many 
years  ago,"  said  Mrs.  Avory. 

The  old  gentleman  rose.  "  It  is  not  true  !  "  he  said 
with  shaking  voice.  "She  was  here  this  morning.  I 
saw  her. "  Then  his  lips  trembled,  and  he  began  to  cry. 


THE  DEVOURERS  17 

Valeria  suddenly  started  up  and  ran  from  the  room. 
In  a  moment  she  was  back  again,  with  her  baby  in  its 
pink  nightdress,  kicking  and  crowing  in  her  arms. 

"  Here's  Nancy ! "  she  said,  with  a  little  break  in  her 
voice. 

"  Why,  of  course ! "  cried  Edith,  clapping  her  hands. 
"  Don't  cry,  grandpapa.  Here's  Nancy." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Avory.  "  See,  father  dear,  here's 
Nancy ! " 

The  old  man  looked  up,  and  his  dim  blue  eyes  met 
and  held  the  sparkling  eyes  of  the  child.  Long  and 
deeply  he  looked  into  the  limpid  depths  that  returned 
his  unwavering  gaze. 

"  Yes,  here's  Nancy,"  said  the  old  man. 

So  the  baby  was  Nancy  ever  after. 


IV 

WHEN  Nancy  had  three  candles  round  her  birthday- 
cake,  and  was  pulling  crackers  with  her  eyes  shut,  and 
her  mother's  hands  pressed  tightly  over  her  ears,  Edith 
put  her  elbows  on  the  table,  and  said : 

"  What  is  Nancy  going  to  be  ?  " 

"  Good,"  answered  Nancy  quickly  —  "  veddy  good. 
Another  cwacker." 

So  she  got  another  cracker,  and  Edith  repeated  her 
question. 

Mrs.  Avory  said :  "  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Well,"  said  Edith,  whose  two  plaits  had  melted 
into  one,  with  a  large  black  bow  fastened  irrelevantly  to 
the  wrong  end  of  it,  "  you  don't  want  her  to  be  just  a 
girl,  do  you  ?  " 


18  THE  DEVOURERS 

Valeria  blushed,  and  said:  "I  have  often  thought  I 
should  like  her  to  be  a  genius." 

Edith  nodded  approval,  and  Mrs.  Avory  looked  du- 
biously at  the  little  figure,  now  discreetly  dragging  the 
tablecloth  down  in  an  attempt  to  reach  the  crackers. 
Nancy  noted  the  soft  look,  and  sidled  round  to  her 
grandmpther. 

"  Hold  my  ears,"  she  said,  "  and  give  me  a  cwacker." 

Mrs.  Avory  patted  the  small  head,  and  smoothed  out 
the  blue  ribbon  that  tied  up  the  tuft  of  black  curls. 

"  Why  do  you  want  me  to  hold  your  ears  ?  " 

"  Because  I  am  af waid  of  the  cwackers." 

"  Then  why  do  you  want  the  crackers  ?  " 

"  Because  I  like  them." 

"  But  why  do  you  like  them  ?  " 

"  Because  I  am  af  waid  of  them ! "  and  Nancy  smiled 
bewitchingly. 

Everybody  found  this  an  astonishingly  profound 
reply,  and  the  question  of  Nancy's  genius  recurred  con- 
stantly in  the  conversation. 

Edith  said:  "Of  course,  it  will  be  painting.  Her 
father,  poor  dear  Tom,  was  such  a  wonderful  landscape- 
painter.  And  I  believe  he  did  some  splendid  figures,  too." 

Mrs.  Avory  concurred;  but  Valeria  shook  her  head 
and  changed  colour.  "  Oh,  I  hope  not ! "  she  said, 
instant  tears  gathering  in  her  eyes. 

Mrs.  Avory  looked  hurt.    "  Why  not,  Valeria  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Oh,  the  smell,"  sobbed  Valeria ;  "  and  the  models 
.  .  .  and  I  could  not  bear  it.  Oh,  my  Tom  —  my  dear 
Tom !  "  And  she  sobbed  convulsively,  with  her  head  on 
Mrs.  Avory's  shoulder,  and  with  Edith's  arm  round  her. 

Nancy  screamed  loud,  and  had  to  be  taken  away  to 
the  nursery,  where  Fraulein  Muller,  the  German  suc- 
cessor of  Wilson,  shook  her. 


THE   DEVOURERS  19 

"  Could  it  not  be  music  ?  "  said  Valeria,  after  a  while, 
drying  her  eyes  dejectedly.  "My  mother  was  a  great 
musician;  she  played  the  harp,  and  composed  lovely 
songs.  When  she  died,  and  I  went  to  live  in  Milan  with 
Uncle  Giacomo,  I  used  to  play  all  Chopin's  mazurkas  and 
impromptus  to  him,  although  he  said  he  hated  music 
if  anyone  else  played.  .  .  .  And,  then,  when  I  married 
.  .  ."  —  Valeria's  sobs  burst  forth  again  —  "  dear  Tom  .  . . 
said  .  .  ." 

Edith  intervened  quickly.  "  I  certainly  think  it  ought 
to  be  music ; "  and  she  kissed  Valeria's  hot  face.  "  The 
kiddy  sings  '  Onward,  Christian  Soldiers,'  and  l  Schlaf, 
Kindchen'  in  perfect  tune.  Fraulein  was  telling  me 
so,  and  said  how  remarkable  it  was." 

So  Nancy  was  sent  for  again,  and  was  brought  in  by 
Fraulein,  who  had  a  scratch  on  her  cheek. 

Nancy  was  told  to  sing,  "  Schlaf,  Kindchen,  schlaf,  da 
draussen  steht  ein  Schaf,"  and  she  did  so  with  very  bad 
grace  and  not  much  voice.  But  loud  and  servile  ap- 
plause from  everyone,  including  Fraulein,  gratified  her, 
and  she  volunteered  her  entire  repertoire,  comprising 
"There'll  be  razors  a-flyin'  in  the  air,"  which  she  had 
learned  incidentally  from  the  attractive  and  supercilious 
gardener's  boy,  Jim  Brown. 

So  it  was  decided  that  Nancy  should  be  a  great 
musician,  and  a  piano  with  a  small  keyboard  was 
obtained  for  her  at  once.  A  number  of  books  on 
theory  and  harmony  were  bought,  and  Edith  said 
Valeria  was  to  read  them  carefully,  and  to  teach  Nancy 
without  letting  her  notice  it.  But  Nancy  noticed  it. 
And  at  last  she  used  to  cry  and  stamp  her  feet  as  soon 
as  she  saw  her  mother  come  into  the  room. 

Fraulein,   with  much  diplomacy,  and  according  to  a 


20  THE   DEVOURERS 

German  book  on  education,  taught  her  her  notes  and 
her  alphabet  at  the  same  time ;  but  the  result  was  con- 
fusion. Nancy  insisted  on  spelling  words  at  the  piano, 
and  could  find  no  "  o  "  for  dog,  and  no  "  t "  for  cat,  and 
no  anything ;  while  the  Italian  Valeria  added  obscurity 
and  bewilderment  by  calling  "  d  "  re,  and  "  g  "  sol,  and 
t{  b  "  c.  Nancy  became  sour  and  suspicious.  In  everything 
that  was  said  to  her  she  scented  a  trap  for  the  conveying 
of  musical  knowledge,  and  she  trusted  no  one,  and  would 
speak  to  no  one  but  Jim  Brown  and  the  grandfather. 

At  last  she  lit  upon  a  device  that  afflicted  and  horrified 
her  tormentors.  One  day,  when  her  mother  was  draw- 
ing little  men,  that  turned  out  to  be  semibreves,  Nancy, 
speechless  with  anger,  put  her  hand  to  her  soft  hair,  and 
dragged  out  a  handful  of  it.  Valeria  gave  a  cry;  she 
opened  the  little  fist,  and  saw  the  soft  black  fluff  lying 
there. 

"  Oh,  baby,  baby !  how  could  you ! "  she  cried.  "  What 
a  dreadful  thing!  How  can  you  grieve  your  poor 
mother  so ! " 

That  ended  the  musical  education.  Every  time  that  a 
note  lifted  its  black  head  over  Nancy's  horizon,  up  went 
her  hand,  and  she  pulled  out  a  tuft  of  her  hair.  Then 
she  opened  her  fist  and  showed  it.  Books  on  harmony 
were  put  away;  the  piano  was  locked.  No  more 
Beethoven  or  Schumann  was  sung  to  her  in  the  guise  of 
lullabies  by  Fraulein  at  night;  but  her  old  friend, 
"  Baby  Bunting,"  returned,  and  accompanied  her,  as  of 
old,  when  she  sailed  down  the  stream  of  sleep,  afloat  on 
the  darkness. 

"  Bye,  Baby  Bunting, 
Father's  gone  a-hunting, 
To  shoot  a  rabbit  for  its  skin, 
To  wrap  little  Baby  Bunting  in. " 


THE   DEVOURERS  21 

.  .  .  Nancy  sat  on  the  grass,  nursing  her  doll,  and 
watching  three  small  rampant  feathers  on  Fraulein 
Milller's  hat,  nodding,  like  little  plumes  on  a  hearse, 
in  time  with  something  she  was  reading. 

"  What  are  you  reading  ?  "  asked  Nancy. 

Fraulein  Muller  went  on  nodding,  and  read  aloud  : 
" '  Shine  out,  little  het,  sunning  over  with  gurls.' " 

"What?"  said  Nancy. 

" '  Shine  out,  little  het,  sunning  over  with  gurls,' " 
repeated  Fraulein  Mnller. 

"  What  does  mean  *  sunning  over  with  girls '  ?  "  cried 
Nancy,  frowning. 

"  Gurls,  gurls  —  hair-gurls !  "  explained  Fraulein. 

"Curls!  Are  you  sure  it  is  curls?"  said  Nancy, 
dropping  her  doll  in  the  grass,  and  folding  her  hands. 
"  Read  it  again.  Slowly." 

"'Shine  out,  little  het,'"  repeated  Fraulein.  And 
Nancy  said  it  after  her.  " '  Shine  out,  little  head, 
shine  out,  little  head  .  .  .  sunning  over  with  curls.' " 

Then  she  said  to  her  governess:  "Say  that  over  and 
over  and  over  again,  until  I  tell  you  not  to ; "  and  she 
shut  her  eyes. 

"  Aber  warum  ?  "  asked  Fraulein  Muller. 

Nancy  did  not  open  her  eyes  nor  answer. 

"Komische  Kleine,"  said  Fraulein;  and  added,  in 
order  to  practise  her  English,  "  Comic  small ! "  Then 
she  did  as  she  was  told. 

That  night  Nancy  quarrelled  with  "  Baby  Bunting." 
She 'sat  up  in  bed  with  flushed  cheeks  and  small,  tight 
fists,  and  said  to  Fraulein  Muller :  "  Do  not  tell  me  that 
any  more." 

Fraulein,  who  had  been  droning  on  in  the  dusk  over 
her  knitting,  and  thinking  that  at  this  hour  in  Dilssel- 


22  THE   DEVOURERS 

dorf  her  sister  and  mother  were  eating  belegte  Brodchen, 
looked  up  in  surprise. 

"  What  it  is,  mein  Liebchen  ?  " 

"  Do  not  tell  me  any  more  about  that  rabbit.  I  can- 
not hear  about  him  any  more.  You  keep  on  —  you  keep 
on  till  I  am  ill." 

Fraulein  Mtiller  was  much  troubled  in  suggesting 
other  songs.  She  tried  one  or  two  with  scant  success. 

Nancy  sat  up  again.  "All  those  silly  words  tease 
me.  Sing  without  saying  them." 

So  Fraulein  hummed  uncertain  tunes  with  her  lips 
closed,  and  she  was  just  drifting  into  Beethoven,  when 
Nancy  sat  up  once  more : 

"  Oh,  don't  do  that ! "  she  said.  "  Say  words  without 
those  silly  noises.  Say  pretty  words  until  I  go  to  sleep." 

So  Fraulein,  after  she  had  tried  all  the  words  she 
could  think  of,  took  Lenau's  poems  from  her  own 
bookshelf,  and  read  Nancy  to  sleep.  On  the  follow- 
ing evenings  she  read  the  "  Waldlieder,"  and  then 
"  Mischka,"  until  it  was  finished.  Then  she  started 
Uhland;  and  after  Uhland,  Korner,  and  Freiligrath, 
and  Lessing. 

.Who  knows  what  Nancy  heard  ?  Who  knows  what 
visions  and  fancies  she  took  with  her  to  her  dreams  ? 
In  the  little  sleep-boat  where  Baby  Bunting  used  to  be 
with  her,  now  sat  a  row  of  German  poets,  long  of  hair, 
wild  of  eye,  fulgent  of  epithet.  Night  after  night,  for 
months  and  years,  little  Nancy  drifted  off  to  her  slumber 
with  lyric  and  lay,  with  ode  and  epic,  lulled  by  cadenced 
rhythm  and  resonant  rhyme.  On  one  of  these  nights 
the  poets  cast  a  spell  over  her.  They  rowed  her  little 
boat  out  so  far  that  it  never  quite  touched  shore  again. 

And  Nancy  never  quite  awoke  from  her  dreams. 


THE  DEVOURERS  23 


IN  Milan  the  cross-grained  old  architect,  Giacomo 
Tirindelli,  Valeria's  "  Zio  Giacomo,"  stout  of  figure  and 
short  of  leg,  got  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night  and  went 
to  his  son  Antonio's  room. 

The  room  was  empty.  He  had  expected  this,  but 
he  was  none  the  less  incensed.  He  went  to  the  window 
and  threw  the  shutters  open.  Milan  slept.  Silent  and 
deserted,  Via  Principe  Amedeo  lay  at  his  feet.  Every 
alternate  lamp  already  extinguished  showed  that  it 
was  past  twelve  o'clock;  and  a  dreary  cat  wandered 
across  the  road,  making  the  street  emptier  for  its 
presence. 

Zio  Giacomo  closed  the  window,  and  walked  angrily 
up  and  down  his  son's  room.  On  the  walls,  on  the 
mantelpiece,  on  the  desk,  were  photographs  —  Nunziata 
Villari  as  Theodora,  in  stiff  regal  robes ;  Nunziata  Villari 
as  Cleopatra,  clad  in  jewels ;  Nunziata  Villari  as  Mar- 
guerite Gautier,  in  her  nightdress,  or  so  it  appeared  to 
Zio  Giacomo's  angry  eyes ;  Villari  as  Norah ;  Villari  as 
Sappho ;  Villari  as  Francesca.  Then,  in  a  corner,  in  an 
old  frame,  the  portrait  of  a  little  girl :  "  My  Cousin 
Valeria,  twelve  years  old."  Zio  Giacomo  stopped  with 
a  short  angry  sigh  before  the  picture  of  his  favourite 
niece,  whom  he  had  hoped  one  day  to  call  his  daughter. 
"  Foolish  girl,"  he  grumbled,  "  to  marry  that  idiotic 

Englishman  instead  of  my  stupid,  disobedient  son " 

Then  another  profile  of  Nunziata  Villari  caught  his  eye, 
and  then  again  Nunziata  Villari,  all  hair  and  smile. 
.  .  .  Zio  Giacomo  had  time  to  learn  the  strange,  strong 
face  by  heart  before  he  heard  the  street-door  fall  to,  and 
his  son's  footsteps  on  the  stairs. 


24  THE   DEVOUEERS 

Antonio,  who  from  the  street  had  seen  the  light  in  his 
room,  entered  with  a  cheerful  smile.  "  Well,  father,"  he 
said,  "  why  are  you  not  asleep  ?  "  He  received  the  inevi- 
table counter-question  with  a  little  Latin  gesture  of  both 
hands  (the  gesture  that  Theodora  specially  liked!). 
"  Well,  father  dear,  I  am  twenty-three,  and  you^  are 
—  you  are  not;"  and  he  patted  his  father's  small 
shoulder  and  laughed  (his  best  laugh  —  the  laugh  that 
Cleopatra  could  not  resist). 

"  Jeune  homme  qui  veille,  vieillard  qui  dort,  sont  tous 
deux  pres  de  la  mort,"  quoted  his  father,  in  deep  stern 
tones. 

"Eh!  father  mine,  if  life  is  to  be  short,  let  it  be  pleas- 
ant," said  Antonio,  lighting  a  cigarette. 

Giacomo  sat  very  straight ;  his  dressing-gown  was 
tight,  and  his  feet  were  chilly.  His  good-looking,  good- 
tempered  son  irritated  him. 

"  Are  you  not  ashamed  ? "  he  said,  pointing  a  dra- 
matic forefinger  at  the  row  of  portraits.  "  She  is  an  old 
woman  of  fifty  ! " 

"Thirty-eight,"  said  Antonio,  seating  himself  in  the 
armchair. 

"  An  actress !  a  masquerading  mountebank,  whom 
every  porter  with  a  franc  in  his  pocket  can  see  when 
he  will;  a  creature  whose  husband  has  run  away  from 
her  to  the  ends  of  the  earth " 

"  To  South  America,"  interpolated  Antonio. 

—  "With  the  cook."  And  Zio  Giacomo  snorted  with 
indignation. 

"  I  am  afraid  her  cooking  is  bad,"  said  Antonio ;  and 
he  blew  rings  of  smoke  and  puckered  up  his  young  red 
mouth  in  the  way  that  made  Phaedra  flutter  and  droop 
her  passion-shaded  lids. 


THE  DEVOURERS  25 

"  I  have  enough  of  it,"  said  his  father,  "  and  we  leave 
for  England  to-morrow." 

"  For  England  ?  To-morrow  ?  "  Antonio  started  up. 
"  You  don't  mean  it !  You  can't  mean  it,  father ! 
Why  to  England?" 

"I  telegraphed  yesterday  to  Hertfordshire.  I  told 
your  cousin  Valeria  we  should  come  to  see  them;  and 
she  has  answered  that  she  is  delighted,  and  her  mother 
is  delighted,  and  everybody  is  delighted."  Zio  Giacomo 
nodded  a  stubborn  head.  "We  shall  stay  in  England 
three  months,  six  months,  until  you  have  recovered 
from  your  folly." 

"Ah!  because  of  Cousin  Valeria.  I  see !"  and  Antonio 
laughed.  "  Oh,  father,  father !  you  dear  old  dreamer ! 
Are  you  at  the  old  dream  again  ?  It  cannot  be,  believe 
me ;  it  was  a  foolish  idea  of  yours  years  ago.  Valeria  was 
all  eyes  for  her  Englishman  then,  and  is  probably  all  tears 
for  him  now.  Stay  here  and  be  comfortable,  father  ! " 

But  his  father  would  not  stay  there,  and  he  would  not 
be  comfortable.  He  went  away  shaking  his  head,  and 
losing  his  slipper  on  the  way,  and  dropping  candle- 
grease  all  over  the  carpet  in  stooping  to  pick  it  up.  A 
sore  and  angry  Zio  Giacomo  got  into  bed,  and  tried  to 
read  the  Secolo,  and  listened  to  hear  if  the  street-door 
banged  again. 

It  banged  again. 

One  o'clock  struck  as  Antonio  turned  down  Via  Monte 
Napoleone,  and  when  he  rang  the  bell  at  No.  36,  the 
portinaio  kept  him  waiting  ten  minutes.  Then  Marietta, 
the  maid,  kept  him  waiting  fifteen  minutes  on  the 
landing  before  she  opened  the  door ;  and  then  the 
Signora  kept  him  waiting  fifteen  eternities  until  she 
appeared,  white-faced  and  frightened,  draped  in  white 


26  THE   DEVOUKEKS 

satin,  with  her  hair  bundled  up  anyhow  —  or  nearly 
anyhow  —  on  the  top  of  her  head. 

Antonio  took  both  her  hands  and  kissed  them,  and 
pressed  them  to  his  eyes,  and  told  her  he  was  leaving 
to-morrow  —  no,  to-day  —  to-day  !  In  a  few  hours ! 
For  ever !  For  England !  And  what  would  she  do  ?  She 
would  be  false !  She  would  betray  him !  She  was  in- 
famous! He  knew  it!  And  would  she  die  with  him  now? 

She  gave  the  little  Tosca  scream,  and  turned  from  him 
with  the  second  act  "Dame  aux  Camelias"  shiver,  and 
stepped  back  like  Fedora,  and  finally  flung  herself, 
like  Francesca,  upon  his  breast.  Then  she  whispered 
five  words  to  him,  and  sent  him  home. 

She  called  Marietta,  who  loosened  her  hair  again,  and 
plaited  it,  and  put  away  what  was  not  wanted,  and  gave 
her  the  lanoline ;  and  she  greased  her  face  and  went  to 
bed  like  Nunziata  Villari,  aged  thirty-eight. 

But  Antonio  went  through  the  nocturnal  streets,  re- 
peating the  five  words:  "London.  In  May.  Twelve 
performances."  And  this  was  March. 

Enough !  He  would  live  through  it  somehow. 
"Aber  fragt  mich  nur  nicht  wie,"  he  said  to  himself, 
for  he  knew  enough  German  to  quote  Heine's  "  Buch  der 
Lieder,"  and  he  had  read  "  Die  Jungf rau  von  Orleans  " 
in  the  original,  in  order  to  discuss  it  with  La  Villari. 

La  Villari  liked  to  discuss  her  roles  with  him.  She 
also  practised  her  attitudes  and  tried  her  gestures  on 
him  without  his  knowing  it.  He  always  responded,  as 
a  violin  that  one  holds  in  one's  hand  thrills  and  re- 
sponds when  another  violin  is  played.  When  she 
was  studying  Giovanna  d'Arco,  he  felt  that  he  was 
le  Chevalier  Bayard,  and  he  dreamed  of  an  heroic  life 
and  an  epic  death.  When  she  was  preparing  herself 


THE   DEVOURERS  27 

for  the  role  of  Clelia,  and  practising  the  attitudes  of 
that  famous  adventuress,  he  became  a  sceptic  and  a 
noceur,  and  gave  Zio  Giacomo  qualms  for  three  weeks 
by  keeping  late  hours  and  gambling  all  night  at  the 
Patriottica.  When  she  took  up  the  role  of  Messalina, 
and  for  purposes  of  practice  assumed  Messalina  atti- 
tudes and  expounded  Messalina  views,  he  drifted  into  a 
period  of  extreme  demoralization,  and  became  perverted 
and  blasphemous.  But  during  the  six  weeks  in  which 
she  arrayed  her  mind  in  the  candid  lines  of  La  Samari- 
tana,  he  became  once  more  spiritual  and  pure :  he  gave 
up  the  Patriottica  and  the  Cafe  Biffi,  and  went  to  early 
Mass  every  morning. 

"  You  funny  boy ! "  said  Villari  to  him  one  day. 
"You  will  do  foolish  things  in  your  life.  Why  don't 
you  work  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Antonio.  "  I  am  in  the  wrong 
set,  I  suppose.  And,  besides,  there  is  no  time.  After 
a  canter  on  the  Bastioni  in  the  morning,  it  is  lunch-time ; 
and  after  luncheon  one  reads  or  goes  out ;  and  then  it  is 
visiting-time  —  the  Marchesa  Adda  expects  one  every 
Monday,  and  the  Delia  Rocca  every  Tuesday,  and  some- 
body else  every  Wednesday.  .  .  .  Then  it  is  dinner-time 
and  theatre-time  and  bed-time.  And  there  you  are  ! " 

"  It  is  a  pity,"  said  La  Villari,  kindly  maternal,  for- 
getting to  be  Messalina,  or  Giovanna,  or  anyone  else. 
"You  have  no  character.  You  are  nice;  you  are  good 
to  look  at;  you  are  not  stupid.  But  your  nose  is,  as 
one  would  say,  a  nose  of  putty  —  yes,  of  putty!  And 
anyone  can  twist  it  here  and  there.  Take  care !  You 
will  suffer  much,  or  you  will  make  other  people  suffer. 
Noses  of  putty,"  she  added  thoughtfully,  "  are  fountains 
of  grief." 


28  THE   DEVOURERS 

Zio  Giacomo  was  one  whose  nose  was  not  of  putty. 
Much  as  he  hated  journeys,  many  as  were  the  things 
that  he  always  lost  on  them,  sorely  as  his  presence  was 
needed  in  his  office,  where  the  drawings  for  a  new 
town  hall  were  lying  in  expectant  heaps  on  his  desk, 
he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  start  for  England,  and  start 
they  should.  He  packed  off  his  motherless  daughter, 
the  tall  and  flippant  Clarissa,  to  a  convent  school  in 
Paris,  bade  good-bye  to  his  sister  Carlotta  and  to  his 
niece  Adele,  and  scrambled  wrathfully  into  the  train  for 
Chiasso,  followed  by  the  unruffled  Antonio. 

Antonio  seemed  to  enjoy  the  trip;  and  soon  Zio 
Giacoino  found  himself  wondering  why  they  had  taken 
it.  Was  the  tale  that  his  niece  Adele  had  told  him 
about  Antonio's  infatuation  for  the  actress  all  foolish 
nonsense  ?  Adele  was  always  exaggerating. 

Zio  Giacomo  watched  his  son  with  growing  anger. 
Antonio  was  cheerful  and  debonair.  Antonio  slept 
when  his  father  was  awake;  Antonio  ate  when  his 
father  was  sick.  By  the  time  they  reached  Dover 
Giacomo,  who  knew  no  word  of  English  but  rosbif 
and  the  Times,  was  utterly  broken.  But  Antonio 
twisted  up  his  young  moustache,  and  ran  his  fingers 
through  his  tight  black  curls,  and  made  long  eyes  at 
the  English  girls,  who  smiled,  and  then  passed  hurriedly, 
pretending  they  had  not  seen  him. 

VI 

AT  Charing  Cross  to  meet  them  were  Valeria  and  Edith 
—  both  charming,  small-waisted,  and  self-conscious. 
Valeria  flung  herself  with  Latin  demonstrativeness  into 
her  old  uncle's  arms,  while  Edith  tried  not  to  be  ashamed 


THE   DEVOUREKS  29 

of  the  noise  the  Italian  new-comers  made  and  of  the 
attention  they  attracted.  When,  later,  they  were  all 
four  in  the  train  on  their  way  to  Wareside,  she  gave 
herself  up  entirely  to  the  rapture  of  watching  Uncle 
Giacomo's  gestures  and  Cousin  Antonio's  eyes.  Cousin 
Antonio,  whom  Valeria  addressed  as  Nino,  spoke  to  her 
in  what  he  called  "banana-English,"  and  was  so 
amusing  that  she  laughed  until  she  coughed,  and 
coughed  until  she  cried;  and  then  they  all  said  they 
would  not  laugh  any  more.  And  altogether  it  was  a 
delightful  journey. 

When  they  alighted  at  the  peaceful  country  station, 
there  was  Mrs.  Avory  and  little  Nancy  and  the  grand- 
father awaiting  them ;  and  there  were  more  greetings 
and  more  noise.  And  when  the  carriage  reached  the 
Grey  House,  Fraulein  stood  at  the  door  step,  all  blushes 
and  confusion,  with  a  little  talcum-powder  sketchily 
distributed  over  her  face,  and  her  newly-refreshed 
Italian  vocabulary  issuing  jerkily  from  her. 

They  were  a  very  cheerful  party  at  tea;  everybody 
spoke  at  once,  even  the  old  grandfather,  who  kept  on 
inquiring,  "  Who  are  they  —  who  are  they  ?  "  —  addressing 
himself  chiefly  to  Zio  Giacomo  —  at  intervals  during  the 
entire  afternoon.  Towards  evening  Nancy  became 
excited  and  unmanageable,  and  Mrs.  Avory  went  to  bed 
with  a  headache.  But  Fraulein  entertained  Zio  Gia- 
como, and  Nino  sat  at  the  piano  and  sang  Neapolitan 
songs  to  Valeria  and  Edith,  who  listened,  sitting  on  one 
stool,  with  arms  interlaced. 

Then  followed  days  of  tennis  and  croquet,  of  picnics 
and  teas  with  the  Vicar's  pretty  daughters  and  the 
Squire's  awkward  sons.  Mrs.  Avory  had  only  brief 
glimpses  of  Valeria  and  Edith  darting  indoors  and  out 


30  THE   DEVOURERS 

again ;  running  up  to  their  rooms  to  change  their  skirts ; 
calling  through  the  house  for  their  racquets.  Zio 
Giacomo  walked  about  the  garden,  giving  advice  to 
Fraulein  about  the  cultivation  of  tomatoes,  and  won- 
dering why  English  people  never  ate  macaroni. 

"  Nor  Knodel"  said  Fraulein. 

" Nor  risotto"  said  Zio  Giacomo. 

" Nor  Leberwurst"  said  Fraulein. 

"  Nor  cappelletti  al  sugo"  said  Zio  Giacomo. 

"  It  is  so  as  with  the  etucation,"  said  Fraulein.  "  The 
etucation  is  again  already  quite  wrong;  not  only  the 
eating  and  the  cooking  of  the  foot.  .  .  ."  And  so  they 
rambled  along.  And  Zio  Giacomo  was  homesick. 

Suddenly  Valeria  was  homesick  too.  It  began  on  the 
first  day  of  the  tennis  tournament  —  a  resplendent  light- 
blue  day.  Nino  said  that  the  sky  matched  Edith's  dress 
and  also  her  eyes,  which  reminded  him  of  Lake  Coino. 
Their  partnership  was  very  successful ;  Edith,  airy  and 
swift,  darted  and  flashed  across  the  court,  playing 
almost  impossible  balls.  In  the  evening,  as  she  lay 
back  in  the  rocking-chair,  pale  and  sweet,  with  her 
shimmering  hair  about  her,  Nino  called  her  a  tired 
butterfly,  and  sang  "  La  Farf alia "  to  her.  Valeria 
was  miserable.  She  said  it  was  homesickness.  She 
felt  that  she  was  homesick  for  the  sun  of  Italy  and  the 
language  of  Italy ;  homesick  for  people  with  loud 
voices  and  easy  gesticulations  and  excitable  tempera- 
ments ;  homesick  for  people  with  dark  eyes  and  dark  hair. 

On  the  second  day  of  the  tournament,  at  tea  on  the 
Vicar's  lawn,  she  became  still  more  homesick.  Her 
partner  was  offering  her  cress-sandwiches,  and  telling 
her  that  it  was  very  warm  for  April,  and  that  last  year 
in  April  it  had  been  much  colder.  Meanwhile,  she  could 


THE   DEVOURERS  31 

see  Nino  at  the  other  side  of  the  lawn  tuning  a  guitar 
that  had  been  brought  to  him ;  he  was  laughing  and 
playing  chords  on  it  with  his  teaspoon.  Edith  and  two 
other  girls  stood  near  him ;  their  three  fair  heads  shone 
in  the  sunlight.  Suddenly  Valeria  felt  as  if  she  could  not 
breathe  in  England  any  more.  She  said  to  herself  that  it 
must  be  the  well-bred  voices,  the  conversation  about  the 
weather,  the  trimness,  the  tidiness,  the  tea,  the  tennis, 
that  were  insufferable  to  her  chagrined  heart.  Meanwhile 
her  dark  eyes  rested  upon  Nino  and  upon  the  three  blonde 
heads,  inclined  towards  him,  and  glistening  in  different 
sheens  of  gold.  She  felt  hot  tears  pricking  her  eyes. 

That  evening  in  her  room,  as  they  were  preparing  for 
bed,  Edith  talked  to  her  sister-in-law  through  the  open 
door.  "  What  fun  everything  is,  Val,  isn't  it  ?  "  she 
said,  shaking  out  her  light  locks,  and  brushing  them 
until  they  crackled  and  flew,  and  stood  out  like  pale 
fire  round  her  face.  "Life  is  a  delightful  institution  !  " 

As  no  answer  came  from  Valeria's  room,  Edith  looked 
in.  Valeria  was  lying  on  her  bed,  still  in  her  pink 
evening  dress,  with  her  face  hidden  in  the  pillow. 

"Why?  What  has  happened,  dear?"  asked  Edith, 
bending  over  the  dark  bowed  head. 

"  Oh,  I  hate  everything ! "  murmured  Valeria.  "  That 
horrid  tennis,  and  those  horrid  girls,  always  laughing, 
always  laughing,  always  laughing." 

Edith  sat  down  beside  her.  "  But  we  laughed,  too  — 
at  least,  I  know  I  did  !  And  as  for  Nino,  he  laughed  all 
the  time." 

"  That  is  it,"  cried  Valeria,  sitting  up,  tearful  and  in- 
dignant. "  In  Italy  Nino  never  laughed.  In  Italy  we 
do  not  laugh  for  nothing,  just  to  show  our  teeth  and 
pretend  we  are  vivacious." 


32  THE  DEVOURERS 

Edith  was  astonished.  She  sat  for  a  long  while 
looking  at  Valeria's  disconsolate  figure,  and  thinking 
matters  over.  Quite  suddenly  she  bent  down  and  kissed 
Valeria,  and  said :  "  Don't  cry."  So  Valeria,  who  had 
left  off  crying,  began  to  cry  again.  And  still  more  she 
cried  when  she  raised  her  head  and  saw  Edith's  shower 
of  scintillant  hair,  and  the  two  little  Lakes  of  Como 
brimming  over  with  limpid  tears.  They  kissed  each 
other,  and  called  themselves  silly  and  goose-like;  and 
then  they  laughed  and  kissed  each  other  again,  and 
went  to  bed. 

Valeria  fell  asleep. 

But  Edith  lay  thinking  in  the  dark. 

She  got  up  quite  early,  and  took  little  Nancy  prim- 
rosing  in  the  woods ;  so  Nino  and  Valeria  went  to  the 
tennis  tournament  alone.  A  fat,  torpid  girl  took  Edith's 
place,  and  Valeria  laughed  all  the  morning. 

Edith  and  Nancy  came  in  from  the  woods  late  for 
luncheon.  When  they  appeared,  Nino  looked  up  at 
Edith  in  surprise.  Mrs.  Avory  said  :  "  Edith,  my  dear, 
what  have  you  done  ?  You  look  a  sight ! " 

"Do  I?"  said  Edith.  "Why,  this  is  the  famous 
North-German  coiffure  Fraulein  has  made  me." 

Valeria's  face  had  flushed.  "  You  ought  not  to  have 
let  her  drag  your  hair  back  so  tight,"  she  said.  And  Mrs. 
Avory  added:  "I  thought  you  had  given  that  ugly 
brown  dress  away  long  ago." 

Then  Nancy  spoke  of  the  primroses  and  Nino  of  the 
tennis ;  and  Edith  kept  and  adopted  the  North-German 
coiffure.  She  dropped  out  of  the  tournament  because 
it  gave  her  a  pain  in  her  shoulders,  and  she  went  for  long 
walks  with  Nancy. 

Nancy  was  good  company.     Edith  grew  to  look  for- 


THE  DEVOURERS  33 

ward  to  the  walks  and  to  the  warm  clasp  of  Nancy's 
little  hand  in  hers,  and  the  sound  of  Nancy's  treble 
voice  beside  her.  Nancy  asked  few  questions.  She 
preferred  not  to  know  what  things  were.  She  had 
never  liked  fireworks  after  she  had  seen  them  in  the  day- 
time packed  in  a  box.  What!  they  were  not  baby 
stars?  All  Fraulein's  definitions  of  things  and  of 
phenomena  were  painful  to  her  mind  as  to  her  ear. 
But  the  seventeen  years  of  Edith  and  the  eight  spring- 
times of  the  child  kept  step  harmoniously.  Nancy's 
dawning  spirit,  urged  by  a  presaging  flame,  pressed  for- 
ward to  its  morning;  while  Edith's  early  day,  chilled 
by  an  unseen  blight,  turned  back,  and  stopped  before 
its  noon.  Her  springtide  faded  before  its  flowering. 

Thus  the  two  girl-souls  met,  and  their  love  bloomed 
upwards  in  concord  like  two  flames. 

On  Easter  Sunday  Fraulein  entered  late  for  luncheon, 
and  Nancy  did  not  come  at  all.  Fraulein  apologized 
for  her  :  "  Nancy  is  in  the  summer-house  writing  a  poetry. 
She  says  she  will  not  have  any  lunch." 

Mrs.  Avory  laughed,  and  Nino  said :  "  What  is  the 
poetry  about  ?  " 

"I  think,"  replied  Fraulein,  shaking  out  her  table- 
napkin,  and  tucking  it  carefully  into  her  collar,  "  it  is 
about  her  broken  doll  and  her  dead  canary." 

"  Is  the  canary  dead  ?  "  exclaimed  Valeria.  "  Why  did 
you  not  tell  me  ?  " 

"She  shall  have  a  new  doll,"  said  Mrs.  Avory,  "at 
once." 

"  But  it  isn't  —  she  hasn't  —  they  are  not ! "  explained 
Fraulein,  much  confused.  "Only  she  says  she  cannot 
write  a  poetry  about  things  that  are  not  broken  and  dead." 

The  old  grandfather,  who  now  rarely  spoke,  raised  his 


34  THE  DEVOUREKS 

head,  and  said  mournfully,  "  Broken  and  dead  —  broken 
and  dead,"  and  went  on  repeating  the  words  all  through 
lunch,  until  he  was  coaxed  and  scolded  into  silence. 

There  was  much  excitement  over  Nancy's  poem  that 
afternoon.  It  was  read  aloud  by  Edith,  and  then  by 
Valeria,  and  then  by  Fraulein,  and  then  again  by  Edith. 
Valeria  improvised  a  translation  of  it  into  Italian  for 
Zio  Giacomo  and  Nino ;  and  then  it  was  read  aloud  once 
more  by  Edith.  Everybody  laughed  and  wept;  and 
then  Valeria  kissed  everybody.  Nancy  was  a  genius! 
They  had  always  known  it.  Zio  Giacomo  said  that 
it  was  in  his  brother's  family;  whereupon  Mrs.  Avory 
said,  "Indeed?"  and  raised  her  eyebrows  and  felt 
hurt.  But  how — said  Valeria —  had  it  come  into  Nancy's 
head  to  write  a  poem?  And  what  if  she  were  never 
to  be  able  to  write  another  ?  Such  things  had  happened. 
Could  she  try  again  and  write  something  else?  Just 
now!  Oh,  anything!  .  .  .  Saying  how  she  wrote  this 
poem,  for  instance ! 

So  little  Nancy,  all  flushed  and  wild  and  charming, 
extemporized  in  Fraulein's  notebook : 

"  This  morning  in  the  orchard 
I  chased  the  fluttering  birds : 
The  winging,  singing  things  I  caught — 
Were  words  1 

"  This  morning  in  the  garden 
Where  the  red  creeper  climbs, 
The  vagrant,  fragrant  things  I  plucked — 
Were  rhymes  1 

"  This  morning  in  the  .  .  ." 

Nancy  looked  up  and  bit  her  lip.  "  This  morning  — 
in  the  what?" 

"  In  the  garden,"  suggested  Valeria. 

"  I  have  already  said  that,"  frowned  Nancy. 


THE   DEVOURERS  35 

Zio  Giacomo  suggested  "  kitchen,"  and  was  told  to 
keep  quiet.  Edith  said  "woodlands,"  and  that  was 
adopted.  Then  Nancy  found  out  that  she  wanted 
something  quite  different,  and  could  they  give  her  a 
rhyme  for  "  verse  "  ? 

"  Curse,"  said  Nino. 

"  Disburse,"  said  Fraulein. 

"Oh,  that  is  not  poetic,  but  rather  the  reverse!" 
cried  Nancy. 

"  Terse,"  said  Edith. 

"  Purse,"  said  Nino. 

"  Hearse,"  said  the  old  grandfather  gloomily. 

Nancy  laughed.     "We  go  from  bad  to  worse,"  she 
exclaimed,  dimpling  and  blushing.     "  Wait  a  minute. 
"  And  if  I  cage  the  birdlings  .  .  ." 

"  What  birdlings  ?  "  said  Fraulein. 

"Why,  the  words  that  I  caught  in  the  orchard," 
said  Nancy  hurriedly. 

Everybody  looked  vague.  "Why  do  you  want  to 
cage  them  ?  "  asked  Fraulein,  who  had  a  tidy  mind. 

"  Because,"  said  Nancy  excitedly,  making  her  reasons 
while  she  spoke,  "words  must  not  be  allowed  to  fly 
about  anyhow  as  they  like  —  they  must  be  caught,  and 
shut  in  lines ;  they  must  be  caged  by  the —  by  the " 

«  The  rhythm,"  suggested  Edith. 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  said  Nancy. 

"  The  measure,  the  time,  as  in  music." 

"  Yes,  that's  it ! "  said  Nancy. 

"And  if  the  flowers  I  nurse  ..." 

"The    flowers  are  the  rhymes,    of    course,"    explained 
Nancy,  flourishing  her  pencil  triumphantly. 

"  And  if  the  flowers  I  nurse, 
The  rambling,  scrambling  things  I  write  — 
Are  verse ! " 


36  THE  DEVOURERS 

"  Beautiful !  wonderful ! "  cried  everybody ;  and  Uncle 
Giacomo  and  Nino  clapped  their  hands  a  long  time,  as 
if  they  were  at  the  theatre. 

When  they  left  off,  Mrs.  Avory  said :  "  I  do  not  quite 
like  those  last  lines.  They  are  not  clear.  But,  of 
course,  they  are  quite  good  enough  for  poetry!"  she 
added.  And  everyone  agreed.  Mrs.  Avory  said  she 
thought  they  ought  to  have  somebody,  some  poet, 
down  from  London  at  once  to  teach  the  child  seriously. 
And  Fraulein  went  into  long  details  about  publishers  in 
Berlin,  and  how  careful  one  must  be  if  one  prints  a 
volume  of  poems  not  to  let  them  cheat  you. 

From  that  day  onward  the  spirit  of  Nancy's  inspiration 
ruled  the  house.  Everybody  was  silent  when  she  came 
into  the  room,  lest  her  ideas  should  be  disturbed ; 
meals  must  wait  until  Nancy  had  finished  thinking. 
When  Nancy  frowned  and  passed  her  hand  across  her 
forehead  in  a  little  quick  gesture  she  often  used, 
Edith  would  quietly  shut  the  windows  and  the  doors, 
so  that  nothing  should  disturb  the  little  poetess,  and 
no  butterfly-thought  of  hers  should  fly  away.  Valeria 
hovered  round,  usually  followed  by  Nino ;  and  Fraulein, 
in  the  library,  read  long  chapters  of  Dante  to  Zio 
Giacomo,  whether  he  slept  or  not,  in  order,  as  she  put 
it  in  her  diary :  "  (a)  To  practise  my  Italian ;  (6)  to  keep 
in  the  house  the  atmosphere  of  the  Spirit  of  Poetry." 

But  the  grandfather,  who  could  not  understand  the 
silence  and  the  irregular  meals,  thought  that  somebody 
had  died,  and  wandered  drearily  about,  opening  doors 
to  see  if  he  could  find  out  who  it  was.  And  he  frequently 
made  Mrs.  Avory  turn  sick  and  chilly  by  asking  her 
suddenly,  when  she  sat  at  her  work,  "  Who  is  dead  in 
the  house  ?  " 


THE  DEVOUREKS  37 

VII 

MEANWHILE  Nunziata  Villari  in  Milan  was  flustering 
the  maid  Marietta  over  the  packing  of  her  trunks,  and 
getting  ready  to  leave  for  her  twelve  performances  in 
England. 

Nino  had  written  to  her  twice  a  day  during  the  first 
week  of  his  absence ;  every  two  days  during  the  second 
week ;  only  once  in  the  third  week ;  and  in  this,  the 
fourth  week,  not  at  all.  "  Some  stupid  English  girl  has 
turned  his  nose  of  putty  from  me,"  mused  La  Villari, 
and  scolded  Marietta  for  what  she  had  packed,  and  for 
what  she  had  not  packed,  and  for  how  she  had  packed 
it.  But  La  Villari  was  mistaken.  No  stupid  English 
girl  had  turned  Nino's  nose  of  putty  from  her.  Edith, 
who  might  have  done  so  had  she  willed,  had  chosen 
to  stab  his  nascent  passion  with  the  hairpins  that  fixed 
the  North-German  coiffure  at  its  most  unbecoming 
angle  half-way  up  her  head.  She  had  left  him  to  him- 
self, and  gone  off  primrosing  with  Nancy,  whose  love  — 
the  blind,  far-seeing  love  of  a  child  —  depended  not  on 
a  tendril  of  hair,  or  the  tint  of  a  cheek,  or  the  glance  of 
an  eye. 

Nino,  standing  alone,  looking  vaguely  round  for 
adoration,  met  Valeria's  deep  eyes  fixed  on  him;  and, 
suddenly  remembering  that  this  little  cousin  of  his  had 
been  destined  to  his  arms  since  both  their  childhood, 
he  let  his  heart  respond  to  her  timid  call.  As  she  bent 
her  head  over  a  letter  to  her  cousin  Adele,  Nino  watched 
her  with  narrowing  eyes.  Had  Fate  not  sent  Tom 
Avory,  the  tall  and  leisurely  Englishman,  bronzed  and 
fair,  sauntering  into  her  life  and  his  years  ago,  painting 
pictures,  quoting  poets,  rowing  her  and  Zio  Giacomo 


38  THE   DEVOUBEKS 

about  the  lake,  this  dark,  graceful  head,  thought  Nino 
would  have  found  its  resting-place  against  his  own 
breast ;  the  little  dimpled  hand,  the  slender  shoulders  — 
all  would  belong  to  him.  Had  he  not  always  loved 
her?  He  asked  himself  the  question  in  all  sincerity, 
quite  forgetting  his  brief  and  violent  fancy  for  Cousin 
Adele,  and  his  longer  and  more  violent  passion  for 
Nunziata  Villari.  True,  he  would  never  have  noticed 
Adele  had  she  not  sighed  at  him  first.  And  he  would 
certainly  never  have  loved  La  Villari  had  she  not 
looked  at  him  first.  But  now  —  Adele  was  nowhere; 
and  La  Villari  was  in  Milan  packing  her  trunks ;  and 
here  was  Valeria,  with  her  dark  head  and  her  dimples. 

"  Valerietta ! "  he  said ;  and  she  raised  her  eyes.  "  It 
is  May-day.  Come  out  into  the  fields." 

So  Valeria  put  away  her  letter,  and  went  to  look 
for  her  hat.  As  she  passed  the  schoolroom  she  heard 
voices,  and  peeped  in.  There  was  her  little  Nancy,  pen 
in  hand,  wild-eyed  and  happy,  and  Edith  bending  over 
her,  reading  half-aloud  what  the  inspired  child-poet  had 
just  written. 

"  I  am  going  into  the  fields  with  Nino,"  said  Valeria. 
"  Edith  dear,  won't  you  come,  too  ?  " 

"Oh  no!  It  is  too  windy,"  said  her  sister-in-law. 
"  The  wind  takes  my  breath  away  and  makes  me  cough. 
Besides,  Nancy  could  not  spare  me." 

"No!"  said  Nancy,  laying  her  pink  cheek  against 
Edith's  arm  and  smiling,  "  I  could  not  spare  her ! " 

Valeria  laughed,  and  blew  a  kiss  to  them  both.  Then 
she  ran  upstairs  for  her  hat,  and  went  out  across  the 
fields  with  Nino. 

Adjoining  the  schoolroom  was  the  drawing-room 
where  Mrs.  Avory  and  the  grandfather  were  sitting 


THE   DEVOURERS  39 

together  in  silence.  "  Sally's  cough  is  worse,"  said  the 
grandfather  suddenly. 

(The  Fates  were  spinning.  "  Here  is  a  black  thread" 
said  One.  "Weave  it  in"  said  the  Other.  And  the 
Third  sharpened  her  scissors.) 

"  Sally's  cough  is  worse,"  said  the  grandfather  again. 

Mrs.  Avory  looked  up  from  her  crocheting.  "  Hush, 
father  dear !  "  she  said. 

"I  said  Sally's  cough  is  worse,"  repeated  the  old 
man.  "  I  hear  it  every  night." 

"  No,  dear ;  no,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Avory.  "  Not  poor 
Sally.  Sally  has  been  at  rest  many  years.  Perhaps 
you  mean  Edith.  She  has  a  little  cold." 

"  I  know  Sally's  cough,"  said  the  old  man. 

Mrs.  Avory  put  her  work  down  and  folded  her  hands. 
A  slow,  icy  shiver  crept  over  her  and  enveloped  her  like 
a  wet  sheet. 

"  Sally  is  my  favourite  grandchild,"  continued  her 
father,  shaking  his  white  head.  "Poor  little  Sally  — 
poor  little  Sally!" 

Mrs.  Avory  sat  still.  Terror,  heavy  and  cold,  crawled 
like  a  snake  into  her  heart.  "Edith!  It  is  Edith!" 
she  said. 

"  It  is  Sally !  "  cried  the  old  man,  rising  to  his  feet. 
"  I  remember  Sally's  cough,  and  in  the  night  I  hear  it." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Then  in  the  school- 
room Edith  coughed.  The  grandfather  came  close  to 
his  daughter.  "  There,"  he  whispered,  "  that  is  Sally. 
And  you  told  me  she  was  dead." 

Mrs.  Avory  rose  tremblingly  to  her  feet.  In  her  eyes 
was  the  vision  of  her  tragic  children,  all  torn  to  death 
by  the  shuddering  and  insidious  111  that  crouched  in  their 
breasts  and  clutched  at  their  throats,  and  sprang  upon 


40  THE   DEVOUREKS 

them  and  strangled  them  when  they  reached  the 
threshold  of  their  youth.  And  now  Edith,  too  ?  Edith, 
her  last-born ! 

She  raised  her  eyes  of  Madre  Dolorosa  to  her  father's 
face.  Then  she  fell  fainting  before  him,  her  grey  head 
at  his  feet. 

Out  in  the  fields,  that  were  alight  with  daisies,  Nino 
took  Valeria's  hand  and  drew  her  arm  through  his. 
"  Little  cousin,"  he  said,  "  do  you  remember  how  I  loved 
you  when  you  were  twelve  years  old,  and  scorned  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  laughed  Valeria ;  "  and  how  I  loved  you  when 
you  were  sixteen,  and  had  forgotten  me." 

"  But,  again,"  said  Nino,  "  how  I  loved  you  when  you 
were  eighteen,  and  refused  me." 

Valeria  looked  at  him  with  timorous  eyes.  "And 
now  I  am  twenty-seven  and  a  half,  and  you  are  only 
twenty-three." 

"  True,"  said  Nino.  "  How  young  you  are !  The 
woman  I  love  is  thirty-eight  years  old." 

Valeria's  face  paled ;  then  it  flushed  rose-pink,  and 
she  laughed.  "  Thirty-eight !  Nearly  forty  ?  I  don't 
believe  it !  "  All  her  pretty  teeth  shone,  and  the  dimple 
dipped  in  her  cheek. 

"  I  hardly  believe  it  myself,"  said  Nino,  laughing. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  not  true,  after  all." 

Did  Zio  Giacomo  in  the  library  hear  with  his  astral 
ear  his  son's  gratifying  assertion  ?  Fraulein  certainly 
thought  that  she  saw  him  smile  in  his  sleep,  while 
through  her  careful  lips  "Conte  Ukolino,"  in  the 
thirty-third  canto  of  the  "Inferno,"  gnawed  noisomely 
at  the  Archbishop's  ravaged  skull. 

"  Are  you  sure  that  she  is  not  seventeen  ? "   asked 


THE  DEVOURERS  41 

Valeria,  biting  a  blade  of  grass,  and  glancing  up  side- 
ways at  her  cousin's  face. 

Nino  stopped.  "'She?'  Who?  Why?  Who  is 
seventeen  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Edith,"  breathed  Valeria. 

Nino  shook  his  head.  "No,  not  Edith,  poor  little 
thing ! "  Then  he  bent  forward  and  kissed  Valeria  de- 
cisively and  authoritatively  long  before  she  expected 
it. 

"  Why  did  you  call  Edith  a  poor  little  thing  ?  "  asked 
Valeria,  when,  she  had  forgiven  him,  and  been  kissed 
again. 

Nino  looked  grave,  and  tapped  his  chest  with  his 
finger.  "  E  tisica  ! "  he  said. 

Valeria  started  back,  and  dragged  her  hands  from 
his.  "Tisica!"  Her  heart  stopped  beating,  and  then 
galloped  off  like  a  bolting  horse.  "  Tisica ! "  In  the 
terrible  half-forgotten  word  the  memory  of  Tom  and 
the  tragic  past  flamed  up  again.  Yes;  Edith  had  a 
cough.  But  everybody  in  England  coughed.  Edith  — 
Edith,  with  her  fair  hair  and  pink  cheeks !  It  was  not 
true!  It  could  not  be  true.  Sweet,  darling  Edith, 
with  the  hideous  North-German  coiffure  that  she  had 
made  for  Valeria's  sake!  Edith,  little  Nancy's  best 
friend !  Ah,  Nancy  /  .  .  .  Valeria's  thought,  like  some 
maddened  quarry,  darted  off  in  another  direction. 
Nancy  !  Nancy !  She  was  with  Edith  now !  She  was 
always  with  Edith,  laughing,  talking,  bending  over  the 
same  book,  kissing  her  good-night  and  good-morning. 

"  I  must  go  back,"  said  Valeria  suddenly,  with  a  face 
grown  pinched  and  small.  Nino  held  her  tight. 

"  What  is  it,  love  of  mine  ?  "  he  said. 

"The  baby!"   gasped    Valeria,  with   a  sob.     Nancy 


42  THE  DEVOUKERS 

was  the  baby  again.  The  baby  that  had  to  be  taken 
away  from  danger  —  from  Tom  first,  and  now  from 
Edith.  It  was  the  baby  for  whom  she  had  run  across 
these  fields  one  morning  years  ago,  tripping  and  stum- 
bling in  her  haste,  leaving  what  perhaps  was  love  behind 
her,  lest  the  baby  should  be  hungry,  lest  the  baby  should 
cry.  And  now  again  she  ran,  tripping  and  stumbling 
in  her  haste,  leaving  what  perhaps  was  love  behind  her. 
Nancy  must  be  saved.  What  if  it  were  too  late! 
What  if  Nancy  had  already  breathed  the  blight?  If 
Nancy,  too,  were  soon  to  begin  to  cough  ...  to  cough, 
and  clear  her  throat,  and  perspire  in  the  night,  and 
have  her  temperature  taken  twice  a  day,  and  then  one 
day  —  one  day  her  eyes  frightened,  her  fists  clenched, 
and  her  mouth  full  of  blood.  .  .  .  Valeria  held  her  hands 
to  her  cheeks,  crying  aloud,  as  she  tottered  and  ran 
across  the  flowering  fields. 

When  she  reached  the  garden  there  was  Nancy, 
standing  on  the  swing,  alone  —  swinging  and  singing,  with 
her  curls  all  ablow. 

"Fraulein  came  out  and  called  Edith  away,"  said 
the  child,  with  a  little  pout.  "  She  said  I  was  not  to 
come.  Perhaps  somebody  has  arrived.  Could  it  be  the 
poet  from  London  ?  " 

"Not  yet,  dear,"  said  Valeria,  voiceless,  and  with 
hammering  heart.  She  embraced  the  little  black  legs 
standing  on  the  swing,  and  laid  her  throbbing  temple 
against  the  child's  pinafore.  "Ave  Maria,  Mater  Dei, 
Ora  pro  nobis,"  she  murmured. 

"  Go  out  of  the  way,  mother  dear,  and  see  how  high 
I  swing,"  said  Nancy.  Valeria  stepped  aside ;  then  she 
saw  Fraulein's  face  appear  at  the  drawing-room  window 
and  Fraulein's  hand  beckoning  to  her  to  come  in. 


THE   DEVOURERS  43 

"  I  must  go  indoors  for  a  moment.  Don't  swing  too 
high,  darling,"  cried  Valeria,  and  hurried  into  the  house. 

When  she  entered  the  drawing-room  her  heart  stood 
still.  Mrs.  Avory  was  on  the  sofa,  with  grey  lips  and 
trembling  hands.  Fraulein  stood  by  her,  holding 
smelling-salts  and  a  saucer  of  vinegar;  while  Edith, 
kneeling  beside  her,  was  crying :  "  Mother  darling ! 
mother  darling!  are  you  better?"  In  a  corner  stood 
the  grandfather  and  Zio  Giacomo,  looking  bewildered 
and  alarmed. 

"  What  has  happened  ?  "  cried  Valeria. 

"  She  fainted,"  whispered  Edith,  with  a  sob,  as  she 
kissed  and  chafed  the  cold  hands.  Then  her  mother's  arm 
went  round  her  neck,  and  her  mother's  tears  rained  on  her. 

"  Edith,  my  little  girl,  my  own  little  girl !  "  she  cried. 

Valeria  wept  with  her,  and  Edith  wept  too,  little 
knowing  the  reason  of  her  mother's  tears. 

.  .  .  Out  in  the  garden  Nancy  was  alone,  swinging  and 
singing,  with  her  curls  all  ablow,  when  the  German 
poet's  spell  came  over  her. 

"  Die  linden  Liifte  sind  erwacht, 
Sie  sauseln  und  wehen  Tag  und  Nacht, 
Sie  kommen  von  alien  Enden  ..." 

The  poets  murmured  it  in  her  ear.  Through  the 
darkening  trees  beyond  the  lawn  she  could  see  a  gilt 
line  where  the  sunset  struck  its  light  in  the  sky. 

"  Die  Welt  wird  schoner  mit  jeden  Tag, 
Man  weiss  nicht  was  noch  werden  mag, 
Das  Bliihen  will  nicht  enden  !  " 

Nancy  slipped  from  the  swing.  The  poets  were  whis- 
pering and  urging.  Had  not  Fraulein  in  yesterday's 
lessons  taught  her  the  wonderful  fact  that  the  world 
was  a  round  star,  swinging  in  the  blue,  with  other  stars 


44  THE   DEVOUKEKS 

above  it  and  below  it  ?  If  one  walked  to  the  edge  of 
the  world,  just  to  where  it  curves  downward  into  round- 
ness, and  if  one  bent  forward  —  holding  to  a  tree,  per- 
haps, so  as  not  to  fall  —  surely  one  would  be  able  to  look 
down  into  the  sky  and  see  the  stars  circling  beneath  one's 
feet!  Nancy  felt  that  she  must  go  to  the  edge  of  the 
world  and  look  down.  The  edge  of  the  world!  She 
could  see  it !  It  was  behind  the  trees  beyond  Millpond 
Farm,  where  the  sun  had  dipped  down  and  left  the 
horizon  ablaze.  So  Nancy  went  out  of  her  garden  to 
go  to  the  edge  of  the  world. 

When  Mrs.  Avory  had  been  tenderly  helped  to  a  seat 
in  the  garden,  and  had  had  a  footstool  and  a  pillow,  and 
some  eau  de  Cologne,  Edith  said : 

"  Where  is  Nancy  ?  " 

"  Where  is  Nancy  ?  "  said  Valeria. 

Fraulein  called  through  the  garden  and  through  the 
house.  Then  Valeria  called  through  the  house  and 
through  the  garden,  and  Edith  ran  upstairs,  and  through 
all  the  rooms  and  into  the  attics,  and  down  again  into 
the  garden  and  to  the  summer-house  and  the  shrubbery. 
Nino  came  in,  and  was  sent  to  the  village  to  see  if  Nancy 
was  there.  But  Nancy  was  not  there,  nor  had  anyone 
seen  her.  Zio  Giacomo  and  the  stable-boy  set  out  in 
one  direction,  and  Jim  Brown  in  another.  Nino  went 
across  the  fields  towards  the  station  —  you  could  hear  his 
call  and  his  whistle  for  miles  —  and  Florence  went  out 
and  past  the  chapel  along  the  road  to  Fern  Glen. 
Valeria,  wringing  her  hands,  ran  out  after  Florence, 
telling  Edith  to  stay  in,  and  mind  and  take  care  of  Mrs. 
Avory  and  the  grandfather. 

But  Edith  put  on  her  hat,  and  said  to  Mrs.  Avory : 
"I  shall  be  back  directly.  Stay  here  quite  quietly, 


THE   DEVOURERS  45 

mother  dear,  and  mind  you  get  Fraulein  to  look  after  you 
and  grandfather." 

But  her  mother  would  not  let  her  go  alone.  No,  no; 
she  would  go,  too !  So  they  both  started  out  towards 
Baker's  End,  telling  Fraulein  to  mind  and  stay  indoors, 
and  look  after  grandfather. 

But  Fraulein,  who  had  recently  read  "  Misunder- 
stood," was  suddenly  seized  by  a  horrible  thought  re- 
garding the  water-lilies  on  Castlebury  Pond,  and  she 
went  out  quickly,  just  stopping  to  tell  the  cook  to  pre- 
pare dinner  and  to  mind  and  look  after  the  grandfather. 
But  the  cook  ran  across  to  Smith's  Farm,  and  the  scul- 
lery-maid went  with  her. 

The  grandfather  remained  alone  in  the  silent  house. 

(The  Fates  were  spinning.  "  Here  is  a  black  thread. 
Weave  it  in") 

The  grandfather  was  alone  in  the  silent  house.  He 
called  his  daughter ;  he  called  Valeria,  and  Edith,  and 
Nancy.  Then  he  remembered  that  Nancy  was  lost. 
He  called  Sally ;  he  called  Tom ;  he  rang  the  bells. 
Nobody  came ;  nobody  answered.  Then  again  he  re- 
membered that  Nancy  was  lost,  and  that  everyone  had 
gone  to  look  for  her.  He  opened  the  front-door  and 
walked  down  the  avenue;  he  opened  the  gate  and 
looked  up  and  down  the  deserted  road.  Then  he 
stepped  out  and  turned  to  the  left,  away  from  the 
village,  and  went  towards  the  cross-roads  at  Heather's 
Farm ;  but  before  he  reached  them  he  crossed  the  field 
to  the  left,  and  went  past  Wakeley's  Ditch  towards  the 
heath. 

The  sun  had  dropped  out  of  sight,  and  night,  soft- 
footed  and  grey,  was  stealing  like  a  cat  across  the 
meadows ;  and  Jim  Brown  had  found  Nancy  on  Three 


46  THE   DEVOUREKS 

Cedars  Hill  when  the  old  grandfather  left  the  heath  and 
turned  his  slow  footsteps  into  the  dark  and  silent  fields. 
He  saw  something  waving  and  moving  against  the  sky. 

"  That  is  Nancy,"  he  said,  and  called  her.  But  it  was 
a  threshing-machine,  covered  with  black  cloths  that 
moved  in  the  wind.  And  the  grandfather  hurried  a 
little  when  he  passed  it.  He  said  aloud :  "  I  am  eighty- 
seven  years  old."  He  felt  that  nothing  would  hurt  him 
that  knew  this,  and  the  threshing-machine  let  him  pass, 
and  did  not  follow  with  its  waving  rags,  as  he  had  feared. 
Then  some  sheep  penned  in  a  fold  startled  him,  running 
towards  him  with  soft  hoofs,  bleating  and  standing  still 
suddenly,  with  black  faces  turned  towards  him.  As  he 
tottered  on  something  started  up  and  ran  away  from  him, 
and  then  it  ran  after  him  and  darted  past  him.  He  was 
chilled  with  fear. 

"  I  am  eighty-seven  years  old.  It  is  not  right  that  I 
should  be  alone  in  the  night,"  he  said ;  and  he  began  to 
cry  whiningly  like  a  little  child.  But  nobody  heard  him, 
and  he  was  afraid  of  the  noises  he  made. 

He  turned  to  go  home,  and  passed  the  shrouded  ma- 
chine again,  and  then  in  a  field  to  the  right  he  saw  some- 
one standing  and  moving. 

"  Have  yon  seen  Nancy  ?  "  he  cried.  "  Hullo !  Good- 
evening  !  Is  Nancy  there  ?  " 

The  figure  in  the  field  beckoned  to  him,  and  he  went 
stumbling  in  the  ruts.  When  he  got  near,  he  said :  "  I 
am  eighty-seven  years  old." 

The  figure  waved  both  arms,  greatly  impressed;  and 
the  grandfather  sat  down  on  the  ground,  for  he  was 
tired. 

'Nancy  had  reached  home,  and  the  lights  were  lit  and 
voices  rang  through  the  house ;  but  the  grandfather  sat 


THE   DEVOURERS  47 

on  the  hill-side  in  the  dark,  and   talked   to  the   scare- 
crow. 

"  When  you  go  home,  sir,  I  shall  go  with  you,"  said 
the  grandfather,  and  the  scarecrow  made  no  objection 
"  You  will  tell  me  when  you  are  ready  to  go." 

But  as  the  figure  waved  to  him  to  wait,  the  grand- 
father tried  not  to  be  cross.  "All  right,  all  right,"  he 
said.  "  I  am  in  no  hurry."  But  it  was  very  cold. 

Suddenly  across  the  hill,  with  long  light  steps,  came 
Tom,  and  Tom's  son  Tom;  and  all  his  dead  grand- 
children came  down  the  hill  with  long,  light  steps  and 
sat  around  him.  And  the  darker  it  grew  the  closer 
they  sat.  Sally,  who  was  the  favourite,  laid  her  head 
against  his  arm,  and  he  could  touch  her  cool  face  with 
his  hand. 

He  asked  if  they  had  seen  Nancy,  but  they  had  not ; 
and  he  asked  Sally  how  her  cough  was.  But  they  all 
laughed  softly,  and  did  not  answer.  The  threshing- 
machine  passed,  waving  its  wings,  and  his  dead  children 
sat  with  him  through  the  night.  Before  dawn  they  rose 
up  and  left  him,  crossing  the  hill  again  with  light,  long 
steps. 

But  the  scarecrow  stayed  with  him  till  he  slept. 

("  Cut  the  thread,"  said  Fate.) 

VIII 

A  FORTNIGHT  after  the  funeral  Nino  twisted  up  his 
moustache  and  went  to  London.  His  father  had  made 
no  objection ;  indeed,  Zio  Giacomo  himself  found  every- 
thing exaggeratedly  doleful,  and  Valeria,  in  her  black 
dress,  going  about  the  house  with  the  expression  of  a 
hunted  cat,  annoyed  him  exceedingly.  She  was  always 


48  THE  DEVOURERS 

jumping  up  in  the  midst  of  any  conversation,  and 
running  out  to  look  for  Nancy. 

What  if  Fraulein  happened  to  be  busy  with  Mrs. 
Avory  or  with  the  servants  ?  said  her  uncle  angrily. 
Surely  there  was  Edith  always  with  the  child,  petting 
her  and  spoiling  her.  Valeria  need  not  worry  so  !  But 
Valeria  worried.  She  paid  no  attention  to  Zio  Giacomo, 
never  even  gave  him  the  promised  minestrone  freddo  on 
his  birthday,  and  Nino  might  have  ceased  to  exist  so 
far  as  she  was  concerned.  She  seemed  to  be  always 
looking  at  Nancy  or  looking  at  Edith.  When  the  two 
sat  happily  together,  reading  or  talking,  she  would  call 
Nancy  with  a  rough  strained  voice,  hurriedly  sending 
the  child  on  some  useless  errand,  or  keeping  her  by  her 
side  and  making  long  foolish  talk  with  her.  Edith 
sometimes  looked  up  in  surprise  when  Valeria  called  the 
child  away  from  her  so  suddenly  and  so  sternly;  but 
seeing  Valeria's  pale  and  anxious  face,  then  glancing 
over  to  Nino,  who  usually  looked  bored  and  absent- 
minded,  Edith  thought  of  lovers'  quarrels,  and  asked  no 
questions. 

But  there  was  no  lovers'  quarrel  between  Nino  and 

(Valeria.  In  Valeria's  terror-stricken  heart  maternal 
love  had  pushed  all  else  aside,  and  only  one  thought 
possessed  her  —  the  thought  of  keeping  Nancy  out  of 
danger,  out  of  reach  of  Edith's  light  breath,  out  of 
reach  of  Edith's  tender  kisses;  while  Nino,  seeing  her 
with  little  Nancy  on  her  lap  or  at  her  side  all  day, 
gradually  grew  to  look  upon  her  in  the  light  of  Valeria 
^  the  mother,  and  lost  sight  of  her  as  Valeria  the  be- 
trothed. A  child  on  its  mother's  breast  forbids  and 
restrains  passion. 

One  evening  he  took  up  a  paper  and  improved  his 


THE  DEVOURERS  49 

English  by  reading  the  news.  The  news  interested  him. 
It  was  on  the  following  day  that  he  twisted  up  his 
moustache  and  went  to  London.  He  had  dinner  at 
Pagani's.  There  he  met  Carlo  Fioretti,  an  old  fellow- 
student  of  his  at  Pavia,  who  was  dining  with  a  golden- 
haired  Englishwoman  at  a  table  near  to  his.  They 
invited  him  to  drink  coffee  and  pousse-caf^  with  them, 
and  Fioretti  told  Nino  that  he  was  doctor  to  the  Italian 
colony  in  London,  and  getting  on  splendidly.  And 
would  he  join  them  at  the  comedy  later  on  ?  Nino  was 
sorry  —  he  was  really  desolated !  —  but  he  could  not.  He 
was  going  to  the  Garrick. 

"  Oh,"  cried  the  fair  lady,  "  to  be  sure  !  La  Villari  is 
playing  there  to-night,  isn't  she  ?  Wonderful  creature  ! '' 
Then  she  shook  an  arch  forefinger  at  Fioretti.  "Why 
did  you  not  think  of  taking  me  to  hear  her  ?  " 

Fioretti  promised  to  take  her  the  next  day,  and  the 
day  after,  and  every  day,  and  for  ever!  Then  Nino 
took  his  leave  with  much  bowing  and  hand-kissing,  and 
Fioretti  accompanied  him  as  far  as  the  door. 

"  Who  is  she  ?  "  said  Nino. 

"  A  lady  of  title,"  said  Fioretti.     "  Divorced." 

" Ddiziosa"  said  Nino. 

" Milionaria"  said  Fioretti.  And  having  quickly 
shaken  hands  with  Nino,  he  hurried  back  to  her. 

The  seven  mourning  women  in  Cossa's  tragedy 
were  already  chanting  their  woes  when  Nino  entered  the 
theatre  and  took  his  seat  in  the  fourth  row  of  the  stalls. 
His  heart  opened  to  the  swing  and  cadence  of  the  Italian 
words,  to  the  loud  sweetness  of  the  Italian  voices,  to  the 
graceful  violence  of  the  Italian  gestures.  His  Latin 
blood  thrilled  in  understanding  and  response. 


50  THE  DEVOURERS 

Suddenly  Villari  was  on  the  stage,  and  no  one  else 
existed.  Fervid  and  lovely,  keen  and  lithe,  soon  she 
held  in  her  small,  hot  hands  the  hearts  of  the  cool 
English  audience,  tightening  their  nerves,  swaying  and 
drawing  them  into  paths  of  unaccustomed  passion. 
Nino  sat  still  with  quick  heart-beats,  wondering  if  she 
would  see  him. 

He  remembered  the  first  time  that  her  eyes  had  met 
his  at  the  Mauzoni  in  Milan  four  years  ago.  She  was 
playing  Sappho.  He  was  with  his  cousin  Adele  and 
Aunt  Carlotta  in  one  of  the  front  rows,  and  they  were 
laughing  at  the  vehemence  of  the  love-scene  in  the 
second  act,  when  suddenly  he  saw  that  Villari  was 
looking  at  him.  Yes,  at  him!  She  gazed  at  him  long 
and  deliberately,  while  Jean  was  sobbing  at  her  feet, 
and  she  said  Daudet's  famous  words,  "Toi  tu  ne 
marchais  pas  encore,  que  moi  de'ja  je  roulais  dans  les 
bras  des  hommes,"  with  her  deep  and  steadfast  eyes 
fixed  on  Nino's  face.  She  had  said  the  words  in  French 
in  the  midst  of  the  Italian  play,  for  she  was  whimsical 
and  wilful,  and  did  as  she  pleased.  Then  she  had 
turned  away,  and  gone  on  with  her  part  without  noticing 
him  any  more.  Cousin  Adele  had  been  acid  and  sar- 
castic all  the  evening.  The  next  day  —  how  well  he 
remembered  it  all !  —  he  had  sent  Villari  flowers,  as  she 
intended  that  he  should,  and  a  week  after  that  he 
had  sent  her  a  bracelet,  having  sold  Aunt  Carlotta 
and  Adele's  piano  during  their  absence  in  order  to 
do  so. 

Now  she  was  before  him  once  more,  fervid  and  lovely, 
keen  and  lithe,  and  Nino  sat  motionless,  with  quick 
heart-beats,  wondering  if  she  would  see  him. 

Suddenly  she  looked  straight  at  him,  with  long  and 


THE   DEVOURERS  51 

deliberate  gaze  —  so  long,  indeed.,  that  he  thought  every- 
one must  notice  it,  and  he  could  hardly  breathe  for  the 
violence  of  his  rushing  veins.  When  the  curtain  fell  he 
sent  his  card  to  her  dressing-room,  but  she  did  not 
receive  him,  nor  did  she  do  so  at  the  end  of  the  play. 
The  next  day  he  sent  her  flowers,  as  she  had  intended 
that  he  should,  but  when  he  called  at  her  hotel  she  was 
out.  He  sat  through  nine  of  her  twelve  performances, 
and  still  she  would  not  see  him,  for  she  was  thirty-eight 
and  wily,  and  knew  men's  hearts.  She  also  knew  her 
own,  and  had  more  than  once  thought  that  she  detected 
symptoms  of  what  she  called  a  grande  passion,  a  toquade, 
for  this  curly-headed,  vehement  young  Nino  with  the 
light  laugh  and  the  violent  eyes.  Nunziata  Villari 
dreaded  her  grand  passions.  She  knew  of  old  how 
disastrous  they  were,  how  unbecoming  to  her  com- 
plexion, how  ruinous  to  her  affairs,  how  gnawing  during 
their  process,  how  painful  at  their  end.  And  she  espe- 
cially dreaded  a  grand  passion  for  Nino,  remembering 
that  he  was  one  who  had  a  nose  of  putty,  and  would 
probably  be  a  fountain  of  grief.  So  night  after  night 
Nino  sat  in  his  stall  and  watched  her,  and  counted  the 
days  that  remained  before  she  would  go  away  again. 
Every  night  she  was  different  —  she  was  Sappho  and 
Magdalen ;  she  was  Norah  and  Fedora ;  she  was  Phaedra 
and  Desdemona.  Every  night  she  was  before  him, 
laughing  or  weeping,  loving  or  hating,  dying  delicate 
deaths.  She  was  terrible  and  sweet,  fierce  and  alluring ; 
she  embraced  and  she  killed;  she  was  resplendent  Purity, 
she  was  emblazoned  Sin ;  she  was  das  Ewig  Weibliche, 
the  immortal  mistress  of  all  lovers,  the  ever-desiring  and 
the  ever-desired. 

When,  after  her  tenth  performance,  he  was  allowed 


52  THE  DEVOUKERS 

to  see  her  in  her  dressing-room,  he  could  not  speak. 
Without  a  word  of  greeting,  without  responding  to  her 
smile,  he  dropped  into  a  chair  and  hid  his  face  in  his 
hands,  to  the  great  amusement  of  Marietta  the  maid. 

But  Nunziata  Villari  was  not  amused.  She  suddenly 
realized  that  she  had  been  acting  for  this  Nino  every 
night,  that  especially  for  him  she  had  sobbed  and  raved, 
she  had  laughed  and  languished ;  and  as  she  saw  him 
sitting  there  with  his  face  in  his  hands,  she  felt  in  her 
heart  the  intermittent  throb  that  she  recognized  and 
dreaded.  It  was  the  grande  passion ;  it  was  the 
toquade.  "  Ca  y  est !  "  she  said.  "  Now  I  am  in  love 
again." 

And  she  was. 

DC 

IN  Wareside  Fraulein  still  read  Dante  to  the  unwitting 
Uncle  Giacomo.  The  apple-blossoms  fluttered  and  the 
sun  shone.  Butterflies,  like  blow-away  flowers,  flitted 
past  Edith  as  she  lay  on  a  couch  in  the  sunshine,  too  lazy 
to  move,  and  too  peaceful  to  read;  while  little  Nancy 
ruffled  up  her  hair  and  puckered  her  brow,  frightened 
and  gladdened  at  once  by  the  luxuriance  of  words 
and  ideas  that  sang  in  her  brain,  that  romped  out  in 
lines  and  paired  off  in  rhymes,  like  children  dancing. 

And  the  two  mothers  sat  in  the  shade  and  watched. 

When  Edith  called  Nancy,  and  the  child  ran  to  her, 
Valeria's  lips  tightened,  and  soon  she  would  call  the 
little  girl  to  her  side  and  keep  her.  Then  Mrs.  Avory's 
face  grew  hard,  and  her  heart  was  bitter  witih  grief.  She 
would  rise  quickly  and  go  to  Edith,  trying  to  divert  her 
thoughts  by  some  futile  question  about  her  crochet,  or 


THE   DEVOURERS  53 

a  book,  or  the  colour  of  the  sky.  Edith  would  answer, 
wondering  a  little,  and  shut  her  eyes,  too  lazy  to 
think. 

Over  their  children's  heads  the  two  mothers'  glances 
met,  hostile  and  hard,  each  shielding  her  own,  each 
defending  and  each  accusing. 

"  Edith  is  ill,"  said  Valeria's  eyes.  "  Nancy  must  not 
be  near  her." 

"  Edith  is  ill,"  said  Mrs.  Avory's  eyes,  "  but  she  must 
not  know  it." 

"  Nancy  must  not  be  endangered." 

"  Edith  must  not  be  hurt." 

"Mother,"  pipes  up  Nancy's  treble  voice  suddenly, 
"  do  you  think  May  is  a  girl  ?  " 

"  Who  is  May,  dear  ?  " 

"  Why,  the  month  of  May.  Do  you  think  it  is  a  girl 
with  roses  in  her  arms,  dancing  across  the  lands,  and 
touching  the  hedges  into  flower  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dear ;  I  think  so." 

"  Or  do  you  think  it  is  a  boy,  with  curls  falling  over 
his  eyes,  wilful  and  naughty,  who  drags  the  little  leaves 
out  from  the  trees,  and  tosses  the  birds  across  the  sky, 
whirling  and  piping  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  so,  dear." 

"Oh,  mother,  you  are  not  listening!'"  cries  Nancy, 
and  scampers  off,  improvising  as  she  goes : 

"  Says  May :  'I  am  a  girl! 
May  is  short  for  Margaret, 
Margaret  or  Daisy. 
The  petals  of  a  jessamine 
No  boy's  hand  could  unfurl ! ' 
Says  May :  '  I  am  a  girl.' 

"  Says  May:  '  I  am  a  boy  ! 
May  is  short  for  .  .  .'  " 


54  THE  DEVOURERS 

"  For  what  ? "  thinks  Nancy,  frowning  impatiently  at 
the  word  that  will  not  come.  Then  she  skips  gaily  on 
across  the  grass : 

"  Says  May  :  'I  am  a  boyl 
May  is  short  for  Marmaduke, 
As  all  the  world  should  know! 
I  taught  the  birds  their  trills  and  shakes, 
No  girl  could  whistle  so! ' 

"  So  May  the  girl,  and  May  the  boy,  they  quarrel  all  day  long; 
While  the  flowers  stop  their  budding,  and  the  birds  forget  their  song. 
And  God  says  :  '  Now,  to  punish  you,  I'll  hang  out  the  new  moon 
And  take  and  bundle  both  of  you  into  the  month  of  June.'  " 

"  Of  course,  May  is  not  short  for  Marmaduke,"  muses 
Nancy,  "  but  that  cannot  be  helped." 

.  .  .  On  her  couch  on  the  lawn  Edith  opened  her  eyes 
and  said :  "  Nancy  ?  Where  is  Nancy  ?  " 

Valeria  sprang  up.  "Is  there  anything  you  want, 
Edith  dear?" 

"  No ;  I  should  like  Nancy.  I  love  to  see  her,  and  I 
am  too  lazy  to  run  after  her." 

"  I  will  call  her,"  said  Valeria. 

At  this  unexpected  reply  Mrs.  Avory  raised  eyes 
shining  with  gratitude  to  her  daughter-in-law's  face. 

Valeria  found  her  little  girl  declaiming  verses  to  the 
trees  in  the  orchard.  She  knelt  down  on  the  grass  to 
fasten  the  small  button-shoe,  and  said,  without  raising 
her  face :  "  Nancy,  you  are  to  go  to  Edith ;  but,  Nancy, 
you  are  not  to  kiss  her." 

"Oh,  mother!  has  she  been  naughty?" 

"No."  Valeria  remained  on  her  knees,  and  put  her 
arm  round  the  child.  "  Edith  is  ill,"  she  said  slowly. 

"  Then  I  will  kiss  her  double,"  cried  Nancy,  flushing. 

"  Nancy,  Nancy,  try  to  understand,"  said  Valeria. 
"  Edith  is  ill,  as  your  father  was,  and  he  died  j  and  as 


THE   DEVOURERS  55 

her  sisters  were,  and  they  died.  And  if  you  kiss  her, 
you  may  get  ill,  too,  and  die.  And  every  time  you  kiss 
her  —  oh,  Nancy,  Nancy,  child  of  mine,  it  is  a  sword 
struck  into  your  mother's  heart !  " 

There  was  a  long  pause.  "  And  if  I  refuse  to  kiss  her, 
will  that  not  be  a  sword  struck  into  her  heart  ?  "  asked 
Nancy. 

"  Yes,"  said  Valeria. 

"  And  if  a  sword  is  in  Edith's  heart,  there  will  be  a 
sword  in  grandmother's  heart,  too  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Valeria. 

A  long  pause ;  then  Nancy  said :  "  There  is  a  sword 
for  every  heart.  ...  I  could  make  a  beautiful  poetry 
about  that."  Her  eyes  were  large,  and  saw  nothing  — 
not  her  mother,  not  Edith  who  was  ill  —  but  the  bleeding 
heart  of  the  world,  sword-struck  and  gigantic,  and  in  her 
ears  the  lines  began  to  swing  and  flow. 

"  Mother  of  God,  help  us ! "  sighed  Valeria,  shaking 
her  head.  "  Go  to  Edith." 

Nancy  went;  and  she  kissed  Edith,  because  she  had 
forgotten  all  that  her  mother  had  said. 

Presently  Zio  Giacomo  came  out  to  them  with  an 
open  letter  in  his  hand.  It  was  a  letter  from  Nino,  and 
Zio  Giacomo's  wrath  knew  no  bounds.  He  called  Nino 
a  perfidious  traitor  and  a  foolish  viper,  and  an  imbecile 
and  the  son  of  an  imbecile.  He  called  Valeria  a  blun- 
dering and  insensate  one,  who  might  have  stopped  Nino, 
and  kept  Nino,  and  married  Nino,  and  made  him  behave 
himself ;  and  Nino  was  an  angel,  and  no  husband  would 
ever  be  such  an  angel  as  Nino  would  have  been  as  a 
husband  to  Valeria.  And  now  the  triple  extract  of  in- 
sensate imbecility  had  gone  off  with  an  actress,  a  per- 
fidious, senile  snake,  who  had  followed  him  to  England, 


56  THE   DEVOURERS 

and  it  was  all  Valeria's  fault,  and  Fraulein's  fault.  Yes, 
Fraulein  was  an  absurd,  moon-struck,  German  creature, 
who  had  turned  him,  Zio  Giacomo,  into  a  preposterous, 
doddering  idiot  by  reading  preposterous,  senseless, 
twaddling  Dante's  "  Inferno "  to  him  all  day  long. 

Fraulein  wept,  and  Valeria  wept;  but  that  did  not 
help  Zio  Giacomo.  Nor  did  it  bring  back  Nino  from 
San  Remo,  where  he  was  strolling  under  palm-trees 
with  La  Villari ;  and  La  Villari  was  smiling  and  sighing 
and  melting  in  the  throes  of  her  new  toquade. 


NINO,  before  leaving  London,  had  borrowed  some  money 
from  Fioretti,  who  had  borrowed  it  from  the  lady  of 
title;  then  he  had  written  to  Nunziata  Villari's  impre- 
s'ario,  and  cancelled  all  her  engagements ;  then  he  wrote 
to  his  father,  and  said  he  was  sorry,  and  to  Valeria,  and 
said  he  was  a  miserable  hound.  After  that  he  started 
for  the  Riviera  with  Nunziata,  who  was  meek  and  docile 
and  lovely  in  her  incredible  hats  and  unverisimilar 
gowns. 

They  were  happy  in  San  Remo;  but  as  May  was 
ended,  and  the  weather  was  hot,  Nino  suggested  spend- 
ing June  in  Switzerland ;  so  they  went  to  Lucerne  and 
up  to  Btirgenstock. 

The  large  hotel  was  already  filled  with  English-speak- 
ing people,  and  the  striking  Italian  couple  was  much 
looked  at  and  discussed.  At  luncheon  their  table  was 
set  next  to  a  family  of  Americans  —  father,  mother,  and 
three  lovely  daughters  with  no  manners.  The  three 
girls  shook  their  curls,  and  laughed  in  their  handker- 
chiefs, and  made  inaudible  remarks  to  each  other  about 


THE   DEVOUKERS  57 

the  new  arrivals.  In  the  evening  they  all  three  ap- 
peared in  rose-silk  dresses,  low-necked  and  tight-waisted 
—  even  the  youngest,  who  looked  scarcely  fourteen. 
They  carried  three  Teddy-bears  to  table  with  them,  and 
were  noisy  and  giggling  and  ill-mannered;  but  their 
beauty  was  indescribable.  The  two  eldest  wore  their 
red-gold  curls  pinned  on  the  top  of  their  heads  with 
immense  black  bows,  whereas  the  youngest  had  her 
flowing  hair  parted  in  the  middle,  and  it  fell  like  a  sheet 
of  gilt  water  to  her  waist. 

Nino,  who  sat  facing  them,  twisted  up  his  moustache, 
and  forgot  to  offer  sweets  to  Nunziata ;  and  Nunziata 
laughed  and  talked,  and  was  charming,  biting  her  red 
lips  until  they  were  scarlet,  and  turning  her  rings  round 
and  round  on  her  delicate  fingers. 

Then  she  said  —  oh,  quite  casually !  —  that  she  had 
received  a  letter  from  Count  Jerace  that  afternoon. 
Count  Jerace  ?  The  name  of  the  handsome  Neapolitan 
viveur  always  grated  upon  Nino,  and  he  became  angry, 
and  made  many  stinging  remarks  ;  whereupon  Nunziata, 
still  sweet  and  patient,  biting  her  red  lips  until  they  were 
scarlet,  and  turning  her  rings  round  and  round  on  her 
delicate  fingers,  said  that  Jerace  thought  of  coming  to 
Biirgenstock  towards  the  end  of  the  week. 

Nino  pushed  his  plate  aside,  and  said  he  would  leave 
the  place  to-morrow.  Then  Nunziata  laughed  and  said  : 
"  So  will  I ! "  and  Nino  called  her  an  angel,  and  finished 
his  dinner  peacefully. 

They  left  the  next  day. 

They  went  to  Engelberg.  In  Engelberg  there  were 
golf-links  and  tennis-courts,  and  English  girls  in  shirt- 
waists and  sailor  hats  —  laughing  girls,  blushing  girls, 
twittering  girls.  Engelberg  was  full  of  them.  Nunziata 


58  THE  DEVOUEERS 

soon  got  a  letter  to  say  that  the  Count  was  thinking  of 
coming  to  Engelberg,  and  Nino  took  her  on  to  Interlaken. 

But  all  Switzerland  was  a-flower  with  girlhood. 
Everybody  in  the  world  seemed  to  be  seventeen  or 
eighteen  years  old.  Nunziata  would  say  nervously  a 
hundred  times  a  day  : 

"  What  a  lovely  girl ! " 

And  Nino  would  ask :    "  What  girl  ?  " 

"  Why,  the  girl  that  just  passed  us." 

Nino  had  not  seen  her. 

"  But  you  must  have  seen  her,"  insisted  Nunziata. 

No;  Nino  had  not  seen  anybody.  He  never  did. 
But  Nunziata  saw  everyone.  Every  uptilted  profile, 
every  golden  head,  every  flower-like  figure,  every  curve 
of  every  young  cheek,  struck  thorns  and  splinters  into 
her  hurting  heart.  She  wore  her  incredible  gowns  and 
her  un verisimilar  hats,  but  they  seemed  strange  and 
out  of  place  in  Switzerland ;  and  the  brief -skirted,  tennis- 
playing  girls,  passing  in  twos  and  threes  in  the  cruel 
June  sunshine,  with  their  arms  round  each  other's  waists, 
would  turn  and  look  after  her  and  smile. 

Soon  Nunziata  felt  that  what  had  been  a  caprice  for 
four  years,  while  she  had  had  her  roles  and  her  audi- 
ences, her  impresarios  and  her  critics,  her  adorers  and 
her  enemies  to  distract  her,  was  a  caprice  no  longer. 
What  had  been  merely  a  toquade,  to  laugh  at  and  to  talk 
about,  was  no  more  a  toquade.  The  fire  had  flamed  up, 
and  was  a  conflagration ;  it  was,  indeed,  la  grande  pas- 
sion. And  Nino  was  alone  in  her  world.  Nino  was 
not  Nino  to  her  any  more.  He  was  youth  itself,  he 
was  love,  he  was  life,  he  was  all  that  she  had  had  in  the 
fulness  of  her  past,  all  that  would  soon  slip  from  her  for 
ever.  And  her  heart  grew  bitter,  as  does  the  heart  of 
every  woman  who  is  older  than  the  man  she  loves.  Her 


THE  DEVOURERS  59 

thirty-eight  years  were  to  her  as  a  wound  of  shame. 
Sometimes,  when  he  looked  at  her,  she  would  bend  for- 
ward and  put  her  hands  over  his  eyes.  "  Don't  look  at 
me !  don't  look  at  me ! "  And  when  he  laughed  and 
drew  her  hands  aside,  she  murmured:  "Your  eyes  are 
my  enemies.  I  dread  them."  For  she  knew  that  his 
eyes  would  gaze  upon  and  desire  all  the  beauty  and  th$ 
youngness  of  the  world. 

Late  one  afternoon  they  sat  on  their  balcony,  while 
an  Italian  orchestra  in  the  gardens  beneath  them  played 
some  Sicilian  music  that  they  loved. 

Nunziata  spoke  her  thought.  "Are  you  not  tiring 
of  me,  Nino?  Oh,  Nino!  are  you  sure  you  are  not 
tiring  of  me  yet  ?  " 

"  Yet  ?  "  exclaimed  Nino.  "  I  shall  never  tire  of  you 
—  never ! " 

"Us  faisaient  d'eternels  serments!  .  .  ."  murmured 
Nunziata,  with  a  bitter  smile. 

Nino  grasped  her  white  helpless  hands.  "Why  will 
you  not  be  happy  ?  "  he  said ;  for  he  knew  her  heart. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Nunziata. 

"You  are  unhappy.  I  feel  it — I  feel  it  all  through 
the  day,  even  when  you  laugh,"  said  Nino.  "Would 
you  be  happier  without  me?" 

"  Neither  with  you  nor  without  you  can  I  live,"  said 
Nunziata. 

The  orchestra  was  playing  Lola's  song,  and  her  soul 
was  filled  with  the  hunger  of  the  unattainable  and  the 
thirst  of  death ;  then,  as  it  was  late,  she  got  up  with  a 
little  sigh,  and  having  powdered  her  face  and  patted  her 
hair,  and  said  a  little  prayer  to  the  Madonna,  she  slipped 
her  arm  through  his,  and  they  went  down  to  dinner  together. 

"  I  promise  I  shall  not  be  so  foolish  again ! "  she  said. 
"  It  is  absurd ;  it  is  morbid ! " 


60  THE   DEVOURERS 

But  after  dinner  a  girl  from  Budapest  was  asked  if 
she  would  dance.  The  girl  laughed  and  hesitated ;  then 
she  vanished  for  a  few  minutes,  during  which  time  Nun- 
ziata  turned  faint  and  sick.  The  girl  reappeared,  bare- 
footed and  lightly  draped;  then  she  danced.  She 
danced  like  the  incarnation  of  spring,  and  she  looked 
like  a  blossom  blown  from  the  almond-tree.  And  Nun- 
ziata  was  morbid  again. 

Nino  was  in  despair.  He  looked  gloomy,  and  sighed, 
and  quoted  Verlaine : 

"Mourons  ensemble,  voulez-vous?  " 

She  laughed  a  little  broken  laugh,  and  quoted  the 
succeeding  line : 

"Oh!  la  folle  id(§e  ! " 

And  she  did  not  quite  mean  her  laugh,  as  he  did  not 
quite  mean  his  sigh. 

Thus  the  two  lovers  toyed  lightly  with  thoughts  of 
the  grave,  while  far  away,  at  the  Grey  House,  Death  had 
uncovered  his  face,  and  was  knocking  at  the  door. 

Mrs.  Avory  had  awakened  one  morning  to  find  the 
last  of  her  daughters  pale,  with  blood-stained  lips, 
fighting  for  breath.  A  doctor,  summoned  in  haste,  had 
said :  "  Davos ! "  A  knighted  specialist  from  London 
had  repeated :  "  Davos ! " 

In  less  than  a  week  the  house  was  dismantled,  the 
trunks  packed,  the  servants  dismissed.  Fraulein,  all 
tears,  had  migrated  into  an  American  family  staying  in 
the  neighbourhood;  Valeria,  pale  and  trembling,  and 
little  Nancy,  sobbing,  and  clinging  to  Edith's  neck,  had 
said  "  Good-bye,  good-bye  !  "  and  had  left  for  Italy  with 
Uncle  Giacomo.  The  tragic  mother  and  daughter  turned 
their  steps  to  the  mountains  alone. 


THE  DEVOUREKS  61 

XI 

DAVOS  glistened  clear  and  keen-cut  in  the  winter  sunshine, 
and  Edith  lay  on  the  southern  terrace  of  the  Belvedere, 
with  a  rug  tucked  round  her  and  a  parasol  over  her  head. 
She  was  happy.  Her  mother  had  just  brought  her  a 
letter  from  Nancy.  Her  little  niece  Nancy,  waiting 
in  Italy  —  waiting  just  for  a  short  time  until  Edith  should 
be  quite  well  again  —  wrote  a  letter  of  love  and  longing, 
and  told  Edith  to  get  well  quickly.  Life  without  Edith, 
she  wrote,  was  a  horrid  nightmare.  Italy  without  Edith 
was  a  green  splash  and  a  name  on  the  map,  but  did  now, 
really  exist  at  all.  Aunt  Carlotta  and  Cousin  Adele  were 
very  kind  people  with  loud  voices,  but  she  did  not 
understand  them,  and  did  not  want  to  understand  them. 
All  she  wanted  was  to  be  with  Edith  again.  She  had 
written  two  poems  in  Italian,  which  her  mother  said 
were  better  than  anything  she  had  ever  written  before. 
And  good-bye  —  and  oh !  let  Edith  get  well  quickly,  and 
let  them  be  together  in  England  again.  There  was  a 
tender  postscript  from  Valeria  telling  her  to  be  good 
and  get  well  quickly. 

Yes,  yes  ;  Edith  felt  that  she  would  get  well  quickly. 
Her  temperature  was  up,  and  the  slight  prickle  of  fever 
in  her  blood  gave  her  a  sensation  of  eagerness,  almost 
of  hurry,  as  if  she  were  hastening  through  illness  to 
health,  and  she  felt  gladly  and  intensely  alive.  She 
pressed  little  Nancy's  letter  to  her  lips,  and  lay  back 
in  her  chair. 

Hers  was  the  last  but  one  of  a  long  row  of  couches  on 
the  southern  terrace  of  the  Belvedere.  On  either  side 
of  her  were  other  reclining  figures.  Next  to  her  on  the 
right  was  a  Russian  girl,  a  few  years  older  than  herself, 


62  THE  DEVOURERS 

with  a  pinched  and  hectic  face.  On  her  left  was  Fritz 
Klasen,  a  German,  twenty-four  years  old,  ruddy  and 
broad-shouldered.  His  blue  eyes  were  open  when  Edith 
turned  her  face  towards  him. 

"  How  do  you  like  Davos  ?  "  he  said. 

Edith  answered:  "Very  much,"  and  the  young  man 
nodded  and  smiled. 

The  Russian  girl  opened  her  black  eyes  and  looked  at 
Edith.  "  Have  you  just  come  up  ?  "  she  asked. 

Edith  said :  "  Yes  ;  we  arrived  three  days  ago.  How 
long  have  you  been  here  ?  " 

"  Four  years,"  said  the  girl,  and  shut  her  eyes  again. 

Edith  turned  her  head  to  the  young  German,  and  ex- 
changed with  him  a  pitying  glance. 

"  And  you  ?  "  she  asked  him. 

"  I  have  been  here  eight  months.  I  am  quite  well. 
I  am  going  home  in  May." 

The  Russian  opened  her  dark  eyes  again,  but  did  not 
speak. 

"  Are  you  going  to  the  dance  to-night  ? "  said  the 
young  man  after  a  while. 

"  A  dance  ?     Where  ?  "  asked  Edith. 

"  Here,  in  the  hotel  —  in  the  big  ball-room.  We  have 
a  dance  here  every  Wednesday,  and  the  Grand  Hotel 
has  one  every  Saturday.  Great  fun."  And  he  cleared 
his  throat  and  hummed  "  La  Valse  Bleue." 

Edith  went  into  the  ball-room  that  evening,  and 
although  she  did  not  dance,  she  enjoyed  herself  very 
much.  Mrs.  Avory  repeatedly  asked  her  if  she  was 
tired.  "  No,  mother  —  no."  There  was  a  wild  feverish 
excitement  all  round  her  that  she  felt  and  shared  without 
understanding  it  —  the  excitement  of  the  danse  macabre. 

Fritz  Klasen  came  to  where  she  sat,  and,  striking  his 


THE   DEVOURERS  63 

heels  together,  introduced  himself  to  her  and  to  her 
mother. 

"  I  had  no  idea  Davos  was  so  gay,"  said  Mrs.  Avory, 
raising  her  light  gentle  eyes  to  the  young  man's  face. 

"  Gayest  place  in  the  world,"  he  said.  "  No  time  to 
mope." 

A  girl  in  strawberry  silk  came  rushing  to  him.  "  Lan- 
cers," she  said,  and  took  his  arm.  They  went  off  hur- 
riedly, sliding  like  children  on  the  polished  floor. 

"  He  does  not  look  ill,"  said  Mrs.  Avory. 

"  Nor  does  she,"  said  Edith. 

"  No  one  does."  And  the  mother  gazed  at  the  laugh- 
ing, dancing  crowd,  and  wondered  if  they  all  had  within 
them  the  gnawing  horror  that  she  knew  was  shut  in  her 
daughter's  fragile  breast. 

"Have  you  noticed,"  she  said,  "that  nobody 
coughs  ?  " 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Edith.     "  Nobody  coughs." 

After  a  short  silence  Mrs.  Avory  said :  "  Probably  most 
of  them  are  here  for  the  winter  sports." 

For  a  long  time  she  believed  this.  Young  faces  with 
pink  cheeks  and  vivid  eyes,  and  laughter,  much  laughter, 
surrounded  her.  There  were  balls  and  concerts,  routs 
and  bazaars,  and  everywhere  the  vivid  eyes,  and  the 
pink  cheeks,  and  the  laughter.  The  only  strange  thing 
that  Mrs.  Avory  noticed  about  her  new  friends  was  that 
when  she  said  good-night  to  them,  and  shook  hands 
with  them,  their  hands  were  strange  to  the  touch,  and 
gave  her  a  little  shock. 

They  were  not  like  the  hands  of  other  people  that  one 
clasps  and  thinks  not  of.  "Good-night,"  to  one. 
"What  a  hot  hand!"  she  would  think.  "Good-night," 
to  another.  "What  a  cold,  moist  hand!"  Hands  of 


64  THE   DEVOURERS 

fire,  and  hands  of  ice ;  arid  hands,  that  felt  brittle  to  the 
touch ;  humid  hands,  which  made  her  palms  creep ;  weak, 
wet  hands,  from  which  her  own  recoiled.  Each  told  their 
tragic  tale.  But  the  faces  laughed,  and  the  feet  danced, 
and  nobody  coughed. 

Edith  soon  stopped  coughing,  too.  The  doctor  had 
forbidden  it.  She  coughed  in  the  night,  when  no  one 
except  her  mother  heard.  The  months  swung  past, 
promising  and  not  fulfilling,  but  promising  again,  and 
Edith  went  to  her  fate  submissive,  with  light  tread. 

One  thing  only  tore  at  her  soul  —  the  longing  to  see 
Nancy.  Nancy,  Nancy,  Nancy!  She  would  say  the 
name  to  herself  a  hundred  times  a  day,  and  close  her 
eyes  to  try  and  picture  the  little  face,  and  the  tuft  of 
black  curls  on  the  top  of  the  buoyant  head.  Her 
feverish  hands  felt  vacant  and  aching  for  the  touch  of  the 
soft,  warm  fingers  she  had  held.  Mrs.  Avory  comforted 
her.  In  the  spring,  or  at  latest  in  the  summer,  Edith 
should  see  Nancy  again.  Edith  would  be  quite  well  in  a 
month  or  two  if  she  ate  many  raw  eggs  and  was  brave. 

So  Edith  ate  raw  eggs  and  was  brave. 

Spring  climbed  up  the  five  thousand  feet  and  reached 
Davos  at  the  end  of  May.  Fritz  Klasen  was  leaving. 
He  was  going  back  to  Leipzig. 

"  Good-bye,  good-bye." 

He  walked  round  the  verandah  at  the  resting-hour, 
shaking  hands  with  everyone,  saying,  "  Gute  Besserung," 
and  "  Auf  wiedersehen  in  Deutschland,"  to  two  or  three 
Germans. 

When  he  reached  the  Russian  girl  she  was  asleep. 
But  Edith  said :  "  Good-bye ;  I  am  so  glad  —  I  am  so  glad 
for  you ! " 


THE  DEVOURERS  65 

When  he  had  passed  she  saw  that  the  Russian  girl's 
eyes  were  open,  and  fixed  on  her. 

"  Did  you  speak  ?  "  said  Edith. 

"No,"  said  the  Russian  in  her  strange,  empty  voice; 
« I  thought." 

Edith  smiled.     "  What  did  you  think  ?  " 

"  I  thought,  why  do  you  lie  ?  " 

Edith  sat  up,  flushing,  and  her  breath  went  a  little 
shorter.  "  What  ?  "  she  said. 

Rosalia  Antonowa  kept  her  deep  eyes  on  Edith's  face. 

"  You  said  you  were  glad  that  he  was  going.  Perhaps 
you  meant  it,"  she  said.  "  You  are  here  so  short  a 
time ;  but  in  a  year,  in  two  years,  or  four  years,  your 
lips  will  not  be  able  to  say  that,  and  your  heart  will 
turn  sick  when  another  goes  away,  and  you  know  that 
you  will  never  go  —  never."  Her  bistre  lids  closed. 

Edith  tried  to  find  something  comforting  to  say  to  her. 

"Davos  is  so  beautiful,  one  ought  not  to  mind. 
Surely  you  must  love  all  this  blue  and  white  loveliness 
—  the  mountains,  and  the  snow,  and  the  sun." 

"Oh,  the  mountains!"  murmured  Rosalia,  with 
clenched  teeth.  "The  mountains,  weighing  on  my 
breast,  and  the  snow  freezing  and  choking  me,  and  the 
sun  blazing  and  blinding  me.  Oh !  "  —  she  raised  her 
thin  fist  to  the  towering  immensity  round  her  —  "  oh, 
this  unspeakable,  this  monstrous  prison  of  death ! " 

Just  then  a  Belgian  girl  passed,  with  pale  lips  and  a 
tiny  waist.  She  stopped  to  ask  Antonowa  how  she  was. 

"  111,"  said  the  Russian  curtly. 

When  the  girl  had  passed  she  spoke  again  to  Edith. 
"And  you  will  know  what  they  mean  when  they  ask 
you  how  you  are.  It  is  not  the  'comment  $a  va?'  of  the 
rest  of  the  world.  No ;  here  they  mean  it.  They  want 


66  THE   DEVOURERS 

to  know.  'How  are  you?  Are  you  better?  Are  you 
getting  better  more  quickly  than  I  am  ?  Surely  you  are 
worse  than  I  am !  What !  no  haemorrhage  for  a  month  ? 
No  temperature  ?  That  is  good.'  And  then  you  see  the 
hatred  looking  out  of  their  eyes." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  so,"  said  Edith. 

The  Russian  kept  silent  for  a  while ;  then  she  said : 
"  Klasen  will  come  back  again.  He  is  not  cured.  The 
doctor  told  him  not  to  go.  He  will  soon  come  back  again." 

He  came  back  four  months  later.  Edith  was  pained  to 
see  how  grey  and  dull  his  face  looked.  Now  he  would 
have  to  stay  two  or  three  years  more.  But  he  said  he  did 
not  mind ;  he  was  happy. 

He  had  been  married  a  month,  and  his  wife  was  with 
him.  He  introduced  his  girl-wife  to  Edith  and  to  Mrs. 
Avory  on  the  day  following  his  arrival.  She  was  a 
gentle  blonde  of  nineteen,  a  blue-blooded  flower  of 
German  aristocracy,  who  had  married  Klasen  against  her 
parents'  will. 

"  I  shall  cure  him,"  she  said. 

The  summer  was  magnificent.  She  went  out  a  great 
deal  for  long  walks  and  steep  climbs,  and  she  sang  at  all 
parties  and  concerts,  for  she  had  a  lovely  young  voice^ 
all  trills  and  runs  like  a  lark's.  She  woiild  sit  on  the 
verandah  at  resting-time  beside  her  husband,  and  near 
Edith,  for  he  had  his  old  place  again,  and  then  after  a 
while  she  would  kiss  his  forehead  and  run  off  to  pay  calls, 
or  to  practise,  or  to  drive  down  to  Klosters. 

Klasen's  bright  blue  eyes  would  follow  her.  The 
Russian  from  her  couch  looked  at  him  and  read  his 
thoughts.  She  read  :  "  I  married  that  I  might  not  be 
alone — alone  with  my  ill  and  my  terror  in  the  night  and 
in  the  day  —  but  I  am  still  alone.  When  my  wife  is  with 


THE   DEVOUKEKS  67 

me,  and  I  cough,  she  says  :  '  Poor  darling  ! '  When  in 
the  night  I  choke  and  perspire,  she  turns  in  her  sleep, 
and  says  :  '  Poor  darling ! '  and  goes  to  sleep  again.  And 
I  am  alone  with  my  ill  and  my  terror." 

The  Kussian  girl  thought  that  Klasen's  blue  eyes 
burned  with  something  that  was  not  all  love. 

After  a  time  the  girl-wife  practised  less,  and  paid 
fewer  calls.  She  said  she  had  lost  weight,  and  one  day 
with  her  husband  she  went  to  see  the  doctor. 

Yes,  there  was  something  —  oh,  very  slight,  very 
slight !  —  at  the  apex  of  the  left  lung.  So  a  couch  was 
brought  out  for  her  on  the  terrace  near  her  husband, 
and  she  rested  in  the  afternoons  with  a  rug  tucked 
round  her  and  a  parasol  over  her  head. 

Fritz  held  the  little  hand  with  the  new  wedding-ring 
still  bright  upon  it.  When  she  coughed  he  said :  "  Poor 
darling ! "  And  he  was  no  more  alone.  In  the  day- 
time they  laughed,  and  were  very  cheerful ;  in  the  night 
Fritz  slept  better ;  but  his  wife  lay  awake,  and  thought 
of  her  sister  and  her  two  little  brothers  safely  at  home 
with  her  father  and  mother  in  Berlin. 

Sometimes  holiday-makers  and  sport-lovers  came  up 
to  Davos  for  a  fortnight  or  a  month,  especially  in  the 
winter.  Mrs.  Avory  noticed  that  they  laughed  much 
less  than  the  invalids  did.  When  they  hurried  through 
the  lounge  with  their  skates  and  skis,  Klasen  would  say : 

"  See  how  they  overdo  things.  They  wear  themselves 
out  skiing,  skating,  curling,  bobsleighing.  Yes,"  he 
would  add,  nodding  to  his  wife  and  to  Edith,  "  almost 
everyone  who  comes  here  as  a  sportsman  returns  here 
as  an  invalid." 

His  little  laugh  made  Edith  shiver.  Sometimes  the 
girl-wife  would  bend  forward. 


68  THE  DEVOURERS 

"  See,  Fritz ;  two  more  have  arrived  to-day  !  " 
"  Do  you  think  they  are  tourists  ?  " 
"Oh  no,  no;  they  are  ill."    And  in  the  young  eyes 
that  gazed  upon  the  new-comers  was  no  sorrow. 

The  months  and  the  years  swung  round,  and  Edith 
passed  along  them  with  light  and  ever  lighter  tread. 
And  still  and  always  the  longing  for  Nancy  tore  at  her 
heart  with  poisoned  teeth.  Every  hour  of  her  day  was 
bitter  with  longing  for  the  sound  of  the  childish  voice, 
the  touch  of  the  soft,  warm  hand.  She  sometimes 
thought :  "  If  I  were  dying,  Valeria  would  let  Nancy 
come  here  to  say  good-bye."  Then  again  she  thought: 

"If  Nancy  came  I  should  recover.  I  cannot  eat 
enough  now  to  get  strong  because  I  am  so  often  near 
to  crying ;  but  if  Nancy  were  here  I  should  not  cry. 
I  should  eat  much  more ;  I  should  not  feel  so  sad ;  I 
should  go  out  for  walks  with  her.  I  know  I  should 
recover.  ..." 

But  Nancy  was  in  Italy  in  the  house  of  Aunt  Carlotta 
and  Cousin  Adele,  and  Edith's  letters  were  not  given  to 
her,  lest  the  paper  over  which  Edith  had  bent  should 
carry  poison  in  its  love-laden  pages. 

Nancy  now  spoke  Italian  and  wrote  Italian  poems. 
She  went  out  for  walks  with  Adele,  and  Adele  held  the 
soft,  warm  hand  and  heard  the  sweet  treble  voice. 
Adele  kept  the  house  quiet  and  the  meals  waiting  when 
Nancy  was  writing ;  and  when  Nancy  frowned  and  passed 
her  hand  across  her  forehead  with  the  little  quick  ges- 
ture she  often  used,  Adele  laughed  her  loud  Milanese 
laugh  that  drove  all  the  butterfly-thoughts  away.  Adele 
tidied  Nancy's  things  and  threw  away  the  dried  prim- 
roses Edith  had  picked  with  her  in  the  Hertfordshire 


THE   DEVOUKEKS  69 

woods,  and  gave  the  string  of  blue  beads  Edith  had  put 
round  Nancy's  neck  the  day  she  left  for  Davos  to  the 
hall-porter's  child,  and  she  tore  up  all  the  poems  Nancy 
had  written  in  England,  because  they  were  old  things 
that  nobody  could  understand. 

Thus,  as  the  months  and  the  years  swung  round, 
Edith  went  from  Nancy's  memory.  Softly,  slowly,  with 
light  tread,  the  girl-figure  passed  from  her  recollection 
and  was  gone ;  for  children  and  poets  are  forgetful  and 
selfish,  and  a  child  who  is  a  poet  is  doubly  selfish,  and 
doubly  forgetful. 

When  Nancy  was  fifteen,  Zardo,  the  Milan  publisher, 
accepted  her  first  book  —  "A  Cycle  of  Lyrics."  By  the 
post  that  brought  the  first  proofs  to  the  little  poet  came 
also  a  letter,  black-edged,  from  Switzerland,  for  her 
mother. 

"  Mother,  mother !  "  cried  Nancy,  drawing  the  printed 
pages  from  the  large  envelope,  and  shaking  them  out 
before  her,  "  Look,  the  proofs,  the  proofs !  This  is  my 
book,  my  own  book !  " 

And  she  lifted  all  the  rough  sheets  to  her  face  and 
kissed  them. 

But  Valeria  had  opened  the  black-edged  letter,  and 
was  gazing  at  it,  pale,  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  Nancy,"  she  said,  "  Edith  is  dead." 

"  Oh,  mother  dear ! "  exclaimed  Nancy,  "  I  am  so 
sorry  !  "  And  she  bent  over  her  mother  and  kissed  her. 
Then  she  went  back  to  her  proofs  and  turned  over  the 
first  page. 

"She  died  on  Thursday  morning,"  sobbed  Valeria. 
"  And  oh,  Nancy,  she  loved  you  so !  " 

But  Nancy  had  not  heard.     Before  her  lay  her  first 


70  THE  DEVOURERS 

printed  poem.     The  narrow  verses  on  the  wide  white 
sheet  looked  to  her  like  a  slender  pathway. 

And  along  this  pathway  went  Nancy  with  starry 
matutinal  eyes,  beyond  the  reach  of  love  and  the  call 
of  Death,  leading  her  dreams  far  out  past  the  brief  arch 
of  Fame,  into  the  shining  plains  of  Immortality. 

XII 

So  Valeria  had  her  wish.  Her  child  was  a  genius,  and 
a  genius  recognized  and  glorified  as  only  Latin  countries 
glorify  and  recognize  their  own.  Nancy  stepped  from 
the  twilight  of  the  nursery  into  the  blinding  uproar  of 
celebrity,  and  her  young  feet  walked  dizzily  on  the 
heights.  She  was  interviewed  and  quoted,  imitated  and 
translated,  envied  and  adored.  She  had  as  many 
enemies  as  a  Cabinet  Minister,  and  as  many  inamorati 
as  a  premiere  danseuse. 

To  the  Signora  Carlotta's  tidy  apartment  in  Corso 
Venezia  came  all  the  poets  of  Italy.  They  sat  round 
Nancy  and  read  their  verses  to  her,  and  the  criticisms 
of  their  verses,  and  their  answers  to  the  criticisms.  There 
were  tempestuous  poets  with  pointed  beards,  and  suc- 
cessful poets  with  turned-up  moustaches ;  there  were 
lonely,  unprinted  poets,  and  careless,  unwashed  poets; 
there  was  also  a  poet  who  stole  an  umbrella  and  an  over- 
coat from  the  hall.  Aunt  Carlotta  said  it  was  the 
Futurist,  but  Adele  felt  sure  it  was  the  Singer  of  the  Verb 
of  Magnificent  Sterility,  the  one  with  the  red  and  evil  eyes. 

Soon  came  a  letter  from  Rome  bearing  the  arms  of 
the  royal  house.  Her  Majesty  the  Queen  desired  to 
hear  Giovanna  Desiderata  read  her  poems  at  the  Quirinal 
at  half-past  four  o'clock  of  next  Friday  afternoon. 


THE   DEVOURERS  71 

The  house  was  in  a  flutter.  Everywhere  and  at  all 
hours,  in  the  intervals  of  packing  trunks,  Aunt  Carlotta, 
Adele,  Valeria,  and  Nancy  practised  deep  curtseying  and 
kissing  of  hand,  and  wondered  if  they  had  to  say  "  Your 
Majesty  "  every  time  they  spoke,  or  only  casually  once 
or  twice.  They  started  for  Rome  at  once.  A  gorgeous 
dress  and  plumed  hat  was  bought  for  Nancy,  a  white 
veil  was  tied  for  the  first  time  over  her  childish  face,  and 
in  very  tight  white  gloves,  holding  the  small  volume  of 
her  poems,  she  went  with  trembling  heart  —  accompanied 
by  Valeria,  Carlotta,  and  Adele  in  large  feather  boas  —  to 
the  Quirinal. 

A  gentle-voiced,  simply-gowned  lady-in-waiting  re- 
ceived them,  and  smiled  a  little  as  she  explained  that 
only  Nancy  was  expected  and  could  be  received.  Nancy 
was  then  told  to  remove  her  veil  and  her  right-hand 
glove.  Carlotta,  Valeria,  and  Adele  embraced  her  as  if 
she  were  leaving  them  for  a  week,  and  made  the  sign  of 
the  cross  on  her  forehead ;  then  the  lady-in-waiting  con- 
ducted her  through  a  succession  of  yellow  rooms,  of  blue 
rooms,  of  red  rooms,  into  the  white  and  gold  room  where 
the  Queen  awaited  her. 

More  gentle-voiced  and  more  simply  gowned  than  her 
lady-in-waiting,  the  Queen,  standing  beside  a  table  laden 
with  flowers,  moved  to  meet  the  little  figure  in  the  huge 
plumed  hat.  Nancy  forgot  the  practised  curtsey  and 
the  rehearsed  salute.  She  clasped  and  held  the  gracious 
hand  extended  to  her,  and  suddenly,  as  the  awed, 
childish  eyes  filled  with  tears,  the  Queen  bent  forward 
and  kissed  her.  .  .  . 

It  was  late  and  almost  dark  when  Nancy  returned, 
dream-like,  with  pale  lips,  to  her  mother,  her  aunt,  and 
her  cousin,  who  were  having  a  nervous  meal  of  sand- 


72  THE  DEVOUKERS 

wiches  and  wines  with  a  gentleman  in  uniform  standing 
beside  them,  and  two  powdered  footmen  waiting  on 
them.  They  all  three  hurriedly  put  on  their  boas  as 
soon  as  Nancy  appeared,  [and  they  left,  escorted  and 
bowed  out  by  the  gentleman  in  uniform.  "  Probably  the 
Duke  of  Aosta,"  said  Aunt  Carlotta  vaguely.  Another 
powdered  footman  conducted  them  to  the  royal  auto- 
mobile in  which  they  returned  to  the  hotel. 

Nancy  was  disappointing  in  her  description  of  every- 
thing. She  sat  in  the  dusky  carriage  with  her  eyes  shut, 
holding  her  mother's  hand.  She  could  not  tell  Aunt 
Carlotta  what  she  had  eaten.  Tea?  Yes,  tea.  And 
cakes  ?  Yes,  cakes.  But  what  kind  of  cakes,  and  what 
else  ?  She  did  not  remember.  And  she  could  not  tell 
Adele  how  the  Queen  was  dressed.  In  white?  No, 
not  in  white.  Was  it  silk  ?  She  did  not  know.  What 
rings  did  the  Queen  wear,  and  what  brooch  ?  Nancy  could 
not  remember.  And  had  she  said  "Your  Majesty"  to 
her,  or  "  Signora "  ?  Nancy  did  not  know.  Neither, 
she  thought.  Then  her  mother  asked  timidly :  "  Did 
she  like  your  poems  ?  "  And  Nancy  tightened  the  clasp 
on  her  mother's  hand  and  said,  "  Yes." 

Carlotta  and  Adele  were  convinced  that  Nancy  had 
made  a  fiasco  of  the  visit  and  of  the  reading.  She  had 
blundered  over  the  greeting,  and  had  forgotten  to  say 
"Maesta."  But  they  talked  to  everybody  in  the  hotel 
about  their  afternoon  at  the  Quirinal,  and  pretended  not 
to  be  surprised  when  the  hall-porter  brought  to  them  at 
the  luncheon-table  a  packet  containing  three  pictures  of 
the  Queen  with  her  signature,  one  for  each;  and  for 
Nancy  a  jewel-case,  with  crown  and  monogram,  con- 
taining a  brooch  of  blue  enamel  with  the  royal  initial  in 
diamonds. 


THE  DEVOUREKS  73 

Nancy  bought  a  diary,  and  wrote  on  the  first  page  the 
date  and  a  name  —  the  name  of  a  flower,  the  name  of  the 
Queen. 

They  returned  to  Milan  in  a  dream.  A  crowd  of 
friends  awaited  them  at  the  station,  foremost  among 
them  Zio  Giacomo,  shorter  of  breath  and  quicker  of 
temper  than  ever,  and  beside  him  the  returned  prodigal, 
Nino,  who  had  never  been  seen  and  seldom  been  heard 
of  for  the  past  eight  years.  Adele  turned  crimson,  and 
Valeria  turned  white  as  the  well-remembered  dark  eyes 
smiled  at  them  from  the  handsome,  sunburnt  face ;  and 
Nino  turned  up  his  moustache  and  helped  them  to  alight 
from  the  train,  .and  kissed  them  all  loudly  on  both  cheeks. 
Nancy  did  not  remember  him  at  all.  She  looked  at  him 
gravely  while  he  rapidly  described  to  her  a  pink  pinafore 
she  used  to  wear  in  England  eight  years  ago,  and  a 
Punch-and-Judy  show,  stage-managed  by  a  Fraulein 
Something  or  other,  and  a  dimple  just  like  her  mother's 
that  she  then  possessed.  Immediately  the  dimple  re- 
appeared, dipping  sweetly  in  the  young  curved  cheek, 
and  Valeria  smiled  with  tears  in  her  eyes  and  kissed 
Nancy.  Then  Nino  kissed  Valeria  and  kissed  Nancy, 
and  then  he  kissed  Adele,  too,  who  was  acidly  looking 
on.  At  last  Zio  Giacomo,  growing  very  impatient, 
hurried  them  off  the  crowded  platform  and  into  cabs 
and  carriages.  They  drove  home,  Nino  crushing  in  at 
the  last  moment  with  Valeria,  Carlotta,  and  Nancy. 
He  did  not  ask  about  the  Queen,  nor  did  he  tell  them 
anything  about  his  own  long  absence ;  but  he  quoted 
Beaudelaire  and  Mallarine  to  them  all  the  way  home  in 
a  low  resonant  voice  broken  by  the  jolts  of  the  carriage. 
He  did  not  quote  Nancy's  poems.  "They  are  sacro- 


74  THE   DEVOURERS 

sanct,"  he  said.  "My  lips  are  unworthy."  Then  he 
drifted  into  Richepin : 

"  Voici  mon  sang  et  ma  chair, 
Bois  et  mange  !  " 

he  said,  looking  straight  before  him  at  Valeria.  And 
Valeria  turned  pale  again,  uselessly,  hopelessly  ;  for  the 
eyes  that  looked  at  her  did  not  see  her. 

Zio  Giacomo  and  Nino  stayed  with  them  to  dinner, 
and  two  of  the  poets,  a  successful  one  and  an  unwashed 
one,  came  later  in  the  evening. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  D'Annunzio  ?  "  asked  Nino  of 
Nancy,  when  the  poets  had  stopped  a  moment  to  take 
breath. 

"I  have  not  read  him.  I  have  read  nobody  and 
nothing,"  said  Nancy. 

"  That  is  right,"  cried  Marvasi,  the  unwashed,  nodding 
his  rusty  head  and  clapping  his  dusty  fingers.  "  Read 
nothing,  and  retain  your  originality." 

"Read  everything,"  cried  Cesare  Raffaelli,  "and 
cultivate  form." 

During  the  discussion  that  followed,  the  din  of  the 
two  poets'  voices  built  a  wall  of  solitude  round  Nino 
and  Nancy. 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  "  asked  Nino,  looking  at  her  mild 
forehead,  where  the  dark  eyebrows  lay  over  her  light 
grey  eyes  like  quiet  wings. 

"  Sixteen,"  said  Nancy  ;  and  the  dimple  dipped. 

Nino  did  not  return  her  smile.  "  Sixteen ! "  he  said. 
And  because  his  eyes  were  used  to  the  line  of  a  fading 
cheek  and  the  bitterness  of  a  tired  mouth,  his  heart  fell, 
love-struck  and  conquered,  before  Nancy's  cool  and 
innocent  youth.  It  was  inevitable. 


THE   DEVOUREKS  75 

"  Sixteen ! "  he  repeated,  lcx>king  at  her,  grave  and 
wondering.  "  Is  anybody  in  the  world  sixteen  ?  " 

And  it  was  not  the  inspired  author  of  the  poems  over 
which  half  Italy  raved,  but  the  little  girl  with  the  wing- 
like  eyebrows,  that  his  wonder  went  to ;  and  it  was  the 
chilly  little  hand  of  the  maiden,  not  the  pulse  of  the 
poet,  that  shook  his  heart  loose  from  those  other  white, 
well-remembered  hands,  where  the  blue  veins,  soft  and 
slightly  turgid,  marked  the  slower  course  of  the  blood  — 
those  sad  blue  veins  which  moved  his  pity  and  strangled 
his  desire. 

"  May  I  call  you  by  your  right  name  ?  "  he  asked. 
" '  Nancy '  seems  so  —  geographical." 

Nancy  laughed.     "  Call  me  as  you  will." 

" Desiderata"  he  said  slowly,  and  the  colour  left  his 
face  as  he  pronounced  it. 

That  evening  Nancy  wrote  on  the  second  page  of 
her  diary  the  date,  and  a  name ;  then  she  scratched  the 
name  out  again,  and  the  Queen  remained  in  the  book 
alone. 

Every  morning  since  the  visit  to  the  Quirinal  Nancy's 
chocolate  and  her  letters  were  brought  in  to  her  at  eight 
o'clock  by  Adele  herself,  who  regarded  it  now  as  an 
office  of  honour  to  wait  on  the  little  Sappho  of  Italy. 
She  came  in,  in  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  with  her  long 
black  hair  in  a  plait,  and  placed  the  dainty  tray  by 
Nancy's  bed;  then  she  opened  the  shutters  and  came 
back  to  sit  beside  Nancy,  and  open  her  correspondence 
for  her.  Nancy  the  while,  like  a  lazy  princess,  sipped 
her  chocolate,  with  her  little  finger  in  the  air.  News- 
paper cuttings  about  Nancy  were  read  first;  requests 
for  autographs  were  carefully  put  aside  for  Adele  to 
answer.  Adele  said  that  she  could  write  Nancy's  auto- 


76  THE   DEVOURERS 

graph  more  like  Nancy  than  Nancy  herself.  Then  poems 
and  love-letters  were  read  and  commented  upon  with 
peals  of  laughter  —  and  business  letters  were  put  aside 
and  not  read  at  all. 

So  many  people  came  and  spoke  to  Nancy  of  what 
she  had  written  that  she  had  no  time  to  write  any- 
thing new.  But  her  brain  was  stimulated  by  all  the 
modernists  and  symbolists  and  futurists  who  recited 
their  works  to  her;  and  in  the  long  lamp-lit  evenings, 
while  Aunt  Carlotta  was  playing  briscola  with  Zio 
Giacomo,  Nino  read  Carducci's  "  Odi  Barbare "  to  the 
three  listening  women  —  Valeria,  Adele,  and  Nancy  — 
who  sat  in  their  large  armchairs  with  drooping  lids 
and  folded  hands,  like  a  tryptich  of  the  seasons  of 
love. 

Valeria  always  sat  a  little  apart  in  the  shadow,  and 
if  anyone  spoke  to  her  she  replied  softly  and  smiled 
wanly.  Valeria's  dimple  had  slipped  into  a  little  line 
on  her  cheek.  Valeria  herself  was  not  Valeria  any  more. 
She  was  Nancy's  mother.  She  had  moved  back  into  the 
shadow,  where  mothers  sit  with  kind  eyes  that  no  one 
gazes  into,  and  sweet  mouths  that  no  one  kisses,  and 
white  hands  that  bless  and  renunciate.  The  baby  had 

pushed  her  there.  Gently,  inexorably,  with  the  first 

outstretching  of  the  tiny  fist,  with  the  first  soft  pressure 
of  the  pink  fragile  fingers  against  the  maternal  breast, 
the  child  had  pushed  the  mother  from  her  place  in  the 
sunlight  —  gently,  inexorably,  out  of  love,  out  of  joy, 
out  of  life  —  into  the  shadow  where  mothers  sit  with  eyes 
whose  tears  no  one  kisses  away,  with  heart-beats  that 
no  one  counts.  Nancy  sooner  than  others  had  taken 
her  own  high  place  in  the  sun ;  for  if  most  children  are 
like  robin  redbreasts,  slayers  of  their  old,  Genius,  the 


THE  DEVOURERS  77 

devourer,  is  like  an  eagle  that  springs  full-fledged,  with 
careless,  devastating  wings,  from  the  nest  of  a  dove. 

"  Nancy,"  cried  Adele,  bursting  into  her  cousin's  room 
one  afternoon,  "here  is  an  Englishman  to  see  you. 
Come  quickly.  I  cannot  understand  a  word  he  says." 

"  Oh,  send  mother  to  him,"  said  Nancy.  "  I  have 
forgotten  all  my  English.  Besides,  I  must  read  this 
noxious  Gabriele  to  the  end." 

"  Your  mother  has  gone  out.  Do  come  ! "  And  Adele 
gave  Nancy's  hair  a  little  pull  on  each  side  and  a  pat  on 
the  top,  and  hurried  her  to  the  drawing-room,  where  the 
Englishman  was  waiting.  He  rose,  a  stern-looking,  clean- 
shaven man,  with  friendly  eyes  in  a  hard  face. 

Nancy  put  out  her  hand  and  said :  "  Buon  giorno." 

He  answered :  "  How  do  you  do  ?  My  Italian  is  very 
poor.  May  I  speak  English  ?  " 

Nancy  dimpled.  "  You  may  speak  it,  but  I  may  not 
understand  it,"  she  said. 

But  she  understood  him.  He  had  written  a  critical 
essay  on  her  book,  with  prose  translations  of  some  of  the 
lyrics,  and  wished  to  close  the  article  with  an  aperpu  of 
her  literary  aims  and  intentions.  What  work  was  she 
doing  at  present !  What  message ? 

"Nothing,"  said  Nancy,  with  a  little  helpless  Latin 
gesture  of  her  hands.  "  I  am  doing  nothing." 

"Peccato !  "  said  the  Englishman.  And  he  added  :  "  I 
mean  your  Italian  word  in  both  senses  —  a  pity  and  a  sin." 

Nancy  nodded,  and  looked  wistful. 

"  Why  are  you  not  working  ? "  asked  her  visitor 
severely. 

Nancy  repeated  the  little  helpless  gesture.  "  I  don't 
know,"  she  said;  then  she  smiled.  "In  Italy  we  talk 


78  THE   DEVOURERS 

so  much.  We  say  all  the  beautiful  things  we  might 
write.  That  is  why  Italian  literature  is  so  poor,  and 
Italian  cafes  so  interesting.  As  for  our  thoughts,  when 
we  have  said  them  they  are  gone  —  blown  away  like  the 
fluff  of  the  dandelions  I  used  to  tell  the  time  by  when  I 
was  a  little  girl  in  England." 

That  childish  reminiscence  brought  her  very  near  to 
him,  and  he  told  her  about  his  mother  and  his  younger 
sister,  who  lived  in  Kent,  in  an  old-fashioned  house  in 
the  midst  of  a  great  garden. 

"  You  make  me  homesick  for  England,"  said  Nancy. 

Mr.  Kingsley  looked  pleased.  "Do  you  remember 
England  ?  "  he  asked. 

"No,"  said  Nancy;  " I  am  always  homesick  for  things 
that  I  have  forgotten,  or  for  things  that  I  never  have 
known."  And  she  smiled,  but  in  her  eyes  wavered  the 
nostalgic  loneliness  of  the  dreamer's  soul. 

The  Englishman  cleared  his  throat,  and  said  in  a  prac- 
tical voice :  "  I  hope  that  you  will  work  very  hard,  and 
do  great  things." 

She  tried  to.  She  got  up  early  the  next  morning,  and 
wrote  in  her  diary,  "  Incipit  vita  nova ! "  and  she  made 
an  elaborate  time-table  for  every  hour  of  the  day ;  then 
she  made  a  list  of  the  things  she  intended  to  write  — 
subjects  and  ideas  that  had  stirred  in  her  mind  for 
months  past,  but  had  been  scattered  by  distracting  visits, 
dispersed  in  futile  conversations.  She  felt  impatient 
and  happy  and  eager.  On  the  large  white  sheet  of 
paper  which  lay  before  her,  like  a  wonderful  unexplored 
country  full  of  resplendent  possibilities,  she  traced  with 
reverent  forefinger  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

Some  one  knocked  at  the  door.    It  was  Clarissa  della 


THE  DEVOURERS  79 

Rocca,  Nino's  married  sister,  tall,  trim,  and  sleek  in 
magnificent  clothes. 

"Mes  amours!"  she  exclaimed,  embracing  Nancy,  and 
pressing  her  long  chin  quickly  against  Nancy's  cheek. 
"Do  put  on  your  hat  and  come  for  a  drive  with  me. 
Aldo  has  come  from  America.  He  is  downstairs  in  the 
stanhope.  He  is  trying  my  husband's  new  sorrels,  and 
so,  of  course,  I  insisted  on  going  with  him.  Now  I  am 
frightened,  and  I  have  nobody  to  scream  to  and  to 
catch  hold  of." 

"Catch  hold  of  Aldo,  whoever  he  may  be,"  said 
Nancy,  laughing. 

"  He  is  my  brother-in-law.  But  I  can't,"  said  Clarissa, 
waving  explanatory  mauve-gloved  hands ;  "  he  is 
driving.  Besides,  he  is  horribly  cross.  Have  you  never 
seen  him  ?  He  is  Carlo's  youngest  brother.  Do  come. 
He  will  be  much  nicer  if  you  are  there." 

"But  he  does  not  know  me,"  said  Nancy,  still  with 
her  pen  in  her  hand. 

"That's  why.  He  is  always  nice  to  people  he  does 
not  know.  Come  quickly,  ma  cMrie.  He  is  ravissant. 
He  has  been  to  America  on  a  wild  and  lonely  ranch  in 
Texas.  He  speaks  English  and  German,  and  he  sings 
like  an  angel.  Make  yourself  beautiful,  mon  chou  aime." 

Nancy  slipped  into  a  long  coat,  and  pinned  a  large 
hat  on  her  head  without  looking  in  the  glass. 

Clarissa  watched  her  from  out  of  her  long  careful  eye- 
lids, and  said  :  "  Mon  Dieu ! "  Then  she  asked  sud- 
denly :  "  How  young  are  you  ?  " 

"  Nearly  seventeen,"  said  Nancy,  looking  for  her  gloves. 

"What  luck!"  sighed  Clarissa.  "And  you  are  sure 
you  won't  mind  if  I  pinch  you  ?  I  must !  The  near 
horse  rears." 


80  THE   DEVOURERS 

Then  they  ran  downstairs  together,  where  Aldo  della 
Rocca  sat,  holding  the  two  impatient  sorrels  in  witli 
shortened  reins.  He  was  flicking  at  their  ears  and 
making  them  plunge  with  curved,  angry  necks  and 
frothing  mouths.  He  was  certainly  ravissant.  His  pro- 
file, as  Nancy  saw  it  against  the  blue  June  sky,  was  like 
Praxiteles'  Hermes.  His  glossy  hair  gleamed  blue-black 
as  he  raised  his  hat  with  a  sweeping  gesture  that  made 
Nancy  smile.  Then  they  were  seated  behind  him,  and 
the  puissant  horses  shot  off  down  the  Corso  and  towards 
the  Bastion!  at  a  magnificent  pace.  Clarissa  shrieked 
a  little  now  and  then  when  she  remembered  to,  but 
Aldo  did  not  seem  to  hear  her,  so  she  soon  desisted. 

"Is  he  not  seraphically  beautiful  ?  "  she  said  to  Nancy, 
pointing  an  ecstatic  forefinger  at  her  brother-in-law's 
slim  back.  "I  often  say  to  Carlo:  'Why,  why  did  I 
meet  you  first,  and  not  your  Apolline  brother  ?  " 

Nancy  smiled.     "  But  surely  he  is  rather  young." 

"  He  is  twenty -four,  you  little  stinging-nettle,"  said 
Clarissa ;  "  and  he  has  been  so  much  petted  and  adored 
by  all  the  women  of  Naples  that  he  might  be  a  thousand." 

"  How  horrid ! "  said  Nancy,  looking  disdainfully  at 
the  unwitting  back  before  her,  at  the  shining  black  hair 
above  the  high  white  collar,  and  at  the  irreproachable 
hat  sitting  correctly  on  the  top  of  it  all. 

"Oh  yes,  he  is  horrid,"  said  Clarissa;  "but  how 
visually  delectable ! " 

Aldo  della  Rocca  turned  his  profile  towards  them.  "  I 
shall  take  you  along  the  Monza  road,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,"  cried  Clarissa,  "  such  an  ugly  old  road,  where 
no  one  will  see  us." 

"  I  am  driving  the  horses  out  to-day,"  said  her  brother- 
in-law,  "  not  your  Paris  frocks."  And  he  turned  away 


THE   DEVOURERS  81 

again,  and  took  the  road  towards  Monza  at  a  spanking 
gait. 

"  II  est  si  spirituel ! "  laughed  Clarissa,  who  bubbled 
over  into  French  at  the  slightest  provocation.  The 
straight,  white,  dusty  road,  bordered  with  poplars, 
stretched  its  narrowing  line  before  them,  and  the 
sorrels  went  like  the  wind.  Suddenly,  as  they  were 
nearing  the  first  ugly-looking  houses  of  Sesto,  the  driver 
checked  suddenly,  and  the  ladies  bent  forward  to  see 
why.  A  hundred  paces  before  them,  struggling  and 
swaying,  now  on  the  side-walk,  now  almost  in  the  middle 
of  the  road,  were  two  women  and  a  man.  Some  children 
standing  near  a  door  shrieked,  but  the  struggling, 
scuffling  group  uttered  no  sound.  Nancy  stood  up. 
The  man,  whose  hat  had  fallen  in  the  road  —  one  could 
see  his  dishevelled  hair  and  red  face — had  wrenched 
one  arm  loose  from  the  clutch  of  the  women,  and  with 
a  quick  gesture  drew  from  his  pocket  something  that 
the  sun  glanced  on. 

"  He  has  a  knife  or  a  pistol ! "  gasped  Nancy. 

The  struggling  women  had  seen  it,  too,  and  now 
they  shrieked,  clutching  and  grappling  with  him,  and 
screaming  for  help. 

Nancy  thrust  her  small,  strong  hands  forward.  "I 
can  hold  the  horses,"  she  said,  and  seized  the  reins  from 
Delia  Rocca's  fingers. 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  "Why, 
what ?  "  And  he  stopped. 

She  read  the  doubt  in  his  face,  and  read  it  wrong. 

"  I  can  —  I  can  ! "  she  cried.  "  Go  quickly !  We 
shall  be  all  right ! " 

He  twisted  his  mouth  in  curious  fashion;  then  he 
jumped  from  his  seat,  and  ran  in  light  leaps  across  the 


82  THE   DEVOURERS 

road.  The  man  was  holding  the  revolver  high  out  of 
the  women's  reach,  while  they  clung  to  him  and  held 
him  frantically,  convulsively,  crying:  "Help!  Ma- 
donna !  Help ! " 

Delia  Rocca  reached  him  in  an  instant,  and  wrenched 
the  short  revolver  away.  With  a  quick  gesture  he 
opened  the  barrel  and  shook  the  cartridges  out  upon 
the  ground.  He  tossed  the  weapon  to  one  of  a  dozen 
men  who  had  now  come  hurrying  out  of  a  neighbouring 
wine-shop,  and,  running  lightly  across  the  dusty  road, 
he  was  back  at  the  side  of  the  carriage  in  an  instant. 
He  glanced  up  at  Nancy,  and  raised  his  hat  again  with 
the  exaggerated  sweep  that  had  caused  her  to  smile 
before. 

"  Pardon  me  for  keeping  you  waiting,"  he  said. 

"  Ah,  quel  poseur  ! "  cried  Clarissa,  who  had  sat  with 
her  eyes  shut,  holding  her  ears  during  the  excitement. 

Delia  Rocca  smiled,  and,  jumping  into  his  place,  took 
the  reins  from  Nancy's  strained  and  trembling  hands. 
She  dropped  back  in  her  seat  feeling  faint  and  excited. 
The  horses  plunged  and  started  forward  again. 

"What  courage!"  said  Clarissa,  taking  Nancy's 
fingers  in  her  own. 

"Yes,"  said  Nancy,  looking  with  approval  at  the 
straight,  slim  shoulders  and  the  black  hair  and  the 
irreproachable  hat.  "  I  like  a  brave  man." 

Clarissa  gave  one  of  her  little  Parisian  shrieks. 

"  Quiche !  it  is  not  Aldo  — it  is  you  who  are  brave !  Aldo 
is  as  cautious  as  a  hare,  but,  being  a  preposterous  poseur, 
he  would  not  miss  an  effect  for  worlds  !  "  And  Clarissa 
flourished  an  imaginary  hat  in  the  Delia  Rocca  style. 

Nancy  laughed,  and  believed  not  a  word  about  the 
hare. 


THE  DEVOURERS  83 

When  they  left  her  at  her  door  she  answered  his 
sweeping  salutation  with  a  serious  little  nod ;  she  ran  up 
the  stairs  hurriedly,  and  into  her  room.  On  her  writing- 
table  lay  an  unopened  letter  from  Nino ;  he  wrote  to  her 
every  morning  and  called  on  her  every  afternoon. 

Nancy  did  not  glance  at  it.  She  ran  out  on  to  the 
balcony.  But  the  stanhope  had  already  turned  out  of 
sight. 

Nancy  stepped  back  into  her  room  and  slowly  drew 
off  her  gloves.  For  some  unexplained  reason  she  was 
glad  that  her  wrists  still  ached,  and  that  her  fingers  were 
bruised  by  the  dragging  of  the  hard,  stiff  reins. 

From  the  open  balcony  the  wind  blew  into  the  room,  « 
and  scattered  the  papers  on  her  writing-table.     It  blew  ! 
away  Nino's  letter;   it  blew  away  the  elaborate  time- 
table she  had  drawn  up  and  the  lists  of  the  work  she  was 
to  do ;  it  blew  away  the  large  white  sheet  of  paper  —  the  < 
fair  sheet  full  of  resplendent  possibilities  —  on  which  she 
had  traced  with  reverent  finger  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

XIII 

WHEN  the  Englishman  called  again  to  bring  her  a  copy 
of  the  Fortnightly  with  the  article  on  "An  Italian 
Lyrist,"  he  found  that  she  had  not  worked  at  all ;  she 
looked  as  sweet  and  helpless  and  idle  as  ever,  and  the 
room  was  full  of  visitors.  He  was  introduced  to  her 
mother,  whom  he  found  gentle  and  subdued,  and  to  the 
vigorous,  loud-voiced  Aunt  Carlotta,  and  to  all  the  poets. 

"  I  am  afraid,  mother  dear,"  said  Nancy,  leaning  her 
billowy  head  against  her  mother's  arm  and  looking  up  at 
her  new  friend  with  May-morning  eyes,  "that  Mr. 
Kingsley  will  think  I  have  no  character." 


84  THE  DEVOURERS 

"  You  have  a  complexion,"  interposed  Aunt  Carlotta. 
"  That  is  enough  for  a  girl." 

Valeria  laughed.  "  It  is  true.  Italian  girls  must  not 
have  characters  until  they  marry.  Then  their  husbands 
make  it  for  them,  according  to  their  own  tastes." 

Mr.  Kingsley  smiled  down  at  Nancy.  "  Why  should  I 
think  you  have  no  character  ?  " 

"Because  you  told  me  to  work.  And  I  promised; 
and  I  have  not,"  said  Nancy. 

"  Have  you  done  nothing  at  all  since  I  saw  you  ?  "  he 
asked. 

Nancy  shook  her  head. 

"  And  have  you  no  thoughts,  no  ideas  that  urge  for 
expression ! " 

"  Oh  yes  ?  "  said  Nancy,  waving  eloquent,  impatient 
fingers.  "  Ideas  and  thoughts  grow  and  bloom  and 
blow  in  my  mind  like  flowers  in  a  garden.  Then  all  these 
people  come  and  talk  to  me. .  .  .  Alas,"  she  sighed, 
looking  round  the  murmuring,  laughing  room,  "in  the 
evening  my  garden  is  barren,  for  I  have  cut  all  my  flowers 
and  given  them  away." 

The  Englishman  forgot  that  he  was  English,  and  said 
what  he  thought : 

"  I  wish  I  could  carry  you  off,  and  lock  you  up  for  a 
year,  with  nothing  but  books  and  a  table  and  an  ink- 
stand," he  said. 

"I  wish  you  could,"  laughed  Nancy,  clasping  eager 
hands.  "I  should  love  it.  Not  a  soul  would  be 
allowed  to  speak  to  me.  And  I  should  have  my  meals 
passed  in  through  the  window." 

The  Englishman  laughed  the  sudden  laugh  of  one  who 
laughs  seldom.  "  And  I  should  walk  up  and  down  out- 
side with  a  gun." 


<  o^ 


T-'  f* 

THE  DEVOURERS  85 

A 

I  Nancy  looked  at  him,  and  a  quick,  shy  thought,  like  a 
bird  darting  into  an  open  window,  entered  her  mind  for 
an  instant.  Surely  it  would  be  good  to  have  this  strong, 
kind  sentinel  between  herself  and  the  world ;  to  feel  the 
light  firmness  of  his  touch  on  her  shoulder  keeping  her 
to  her  work  —  to  the  work  she  loved,  and  yet  was  willing 
to  neglect  at  the  call  of  every  passing  voice.  This  stern, 
fair  countenance  would  face  the  world  for  her ;  these 
strong  shoulders  would  carry  her  burdens  ;  these  candid 
eyes  would  look  into  her  soul  and  keep  it  clear  and  bright. 

Then  the  bird-thought  flew  out  of  the  window  of  her 
mind,  for  the  door  opened  —  and  love  and  destiny  came 
in.  It  was  Aldo  della  Rocca,  more  than  ever  visually 
delectable. 

With  him  came  his  sister-in-law  Clarissa,  and  Nino. 
Nino  looked  depressed  and  dreary ;  La  Villari  was 
writing  to  him ;  his  conscience  was  harassing  him ;  Aldo 
della  Rocca's  self-confident  beauty  irritated  him. 

"  What,  Nino  !  Here  again  ?  "  said  Nancy,  with  a 
laugh.  "  You  said  last  night  that  henceforward  you 
would  never  come  to  see  us  more  than  twice  a  week." 

"  That's  right,"  said  Nino.  "  Yesterday  was  the  last 
visit  of  last  week,  and  this  is  the  first  visit  of  this  week. 
Besides,  Delia  Rocca  told  me  he  was  coming,  so  I  felt 
that  I  had  to  come  too.  Of  course,  I  did  all  I  could  to 
shake  him  off,  but  he  is  as  persistent  and  adhesive  as  one 
of  his  compatriot  cab-drivers  in  Santa  Lucia.  So  that  is 
why  I  could  not  come  alone." 

"  How  confusing  ! "  said  Nancy,  turning  to  greet  Della 
Rocca. 

Delia  Rocca  smiled;  and  his  smile  was  sudden  and 
brilliant,  as  if  a  row  of  lights  had  been  lit  at  the  back  of 
his  eyes. 


86  THE  DEVOURERS 

He  bent  over  Nancy's  proffered  hand.  "  Signora  — 
your  slave  ! "  he  said  in  ceremonious  Southern  fashion. 

Clarissa's  high  voice  rang  out.  "  He  has  been  reading 
your  poems  day  and  night,  Nancy.  And  he  has  put 
them  to  music.  Glorious  !  Quite  d  la  Richard  Strauss 
or  Tosti  or  Hugo  Wolff  !  He  must  sing  them  to  you." 

Then  she  sailed  round,  greeting  the  poets,  many  of 
whom  she  knew.  The  Englishman  was  introduced  as 
the  Signor  Kingsley,  and  Clarissa  asked  him  many 
questions  about  London,  and  did  not  wait  to  hear  what 
he  answered,  but  went  off  with  Adele  and  Aunt  Carlotta 
to  a  French  lecture  on  "  Napoleon  et  les  Femmes."  The 
poets,  as  soon  as  they  had  had  vermouth  and  biscottini  di 
Novara,  also  went  away. 

Then  Delia  Rocca  seated  himself  at  the  piano,  and, 
preluding  softly,  strayed  from  harmony  to  harmony  into 
the  songs  he  had  composed  for  Nancy.  He  played  with 
his  head  bent  forward  and  his  soft  hair  falling  darkly 
over  half  his  face,  making  him  look  like  a  younger 
brother  of  Velasquez's  Christ.  He  had  the  musical 
talent  of  a  Neapolitan  street-boy  and  the  voice  of  an 
angel  who  had  studied  singing  in  Germany.  Nancy  felt 
happy  tears  welling  into  her  eyes,  and  Delia  Rocca's 
clear-cut,  down-curving  profile  wavered  before  her  gaze. 

The  Signor  Kingsley  sat  silent  in  his  corner  near  the 
window.  Valeria  was  in  the  shadow  with  some  quiet 
work  in  her  hand,  and  Nino,  who  was  sulky  and  bored, 
smoked  cigarette  after  cigarette  and  yawned. 

Nancy  bent  forward  with  clasped  hands,  listening  to 
her  own  words,  the  lovelier  for  their  garb  of  music  as 
children  are  more  lovely  when  clothed  in  shimmering 
robes  and  crowned  with  roses.  She  had  sent  her  thoughts 
out  into  the  world,  in  their  innocent  and  passionate 


THE  DEVOURERS  87 

immaturity,  bare  and  wild.  And,  behold,  he  brought 
them  back  to  her  veiled  in  silver  minor  keys,  borne  on 
palanquins  of  rhythmic  harmonies,  regal,  measured, 
stately,  like  the  young  sisters  of  a  queen. 

Mr.  Kingsley's  mouth  tightened  as  he  watched  the 
back  of  the  singer's  black  head  nodding  to  the  music,  and 
listened  to  the  soft  tenor  voice  rolling  over  the  "  r's"  and 
broadening  on  the  mellow  "a's"  of  the  tender  Italian 
words.  He  felt  his  own  good  English  baritone  con- 
tracting in  his  throat,  and  he  wondered  what  made 
"these  Latin  idiots"  sing  as  they  did.  Then  he 
glanced  at  Nancy,  who  had  closed  her  eyes,  and  at  Nino, 
who  was  in  the  rocking-chair  staring  at  the  ceiling ;  and 
suddenly  he  felt  that  he  must  take  his  leave.  He  rose 
at  the  end  of  the  cycle  of  songs,  and  Nancy  turned  to 
him  with  vague  eyes  to  say  good-bye.  His  kind  clear 
gaze  rested  on  her  face. 

"  Do  not  cut  all  your  flowers,"  he  said. 

Nancy  shook  her  head.  "  No,  no !  "  she  said.  "  I 
won't.  I  really  won't." 

"Remember  that  your  masterpiece  is  before  you,  and 
the  little  poems  are  done  with.  Lock  your  doors.  Shut 
out  the  world,  and  start  on  a  new  work  to-morrow." 

Nancy  said,  "Yes,  yes,  I  will."  Then  an  absent  look 
stole  over  her  light  eyes.  "  Ah !  der  Musikant ! "  she 
cried,  turning  to  Delia  Rocca,  who  was  singing  in 
German,  and  pronouncing  as  if  it  were  Genovese.  "  I 
remember  that.  Is  it  not  Eichendorff  ?  " 

" '  Aus  dera  Leben  eines  Taugenichts,' "  said  Delia 
Rocca. 

"  Oh,  do  you  really  speak  German  ?  I  love  people 
who  speak  German,"  cried  Nancy,  on  whom  the  German 
poet's  spell  still  rested. 


88  THE  DEVOURERS 

"I  learned  it  at  Gottingen,"  said  Delia  Rocca,  with 
his  illuminating  smile. 

"  Ach,  de  Stadt  die  am  schonsten  ist  wenn  man  sie 
mit  dem  Riicken  ansieht,"  quoted  Nancy,  laughing. 

Delia  Rocca  laughed  too,  although  he  did  not  under- 
stand what  she  had  said ;  then  he  turned  to  the  piano 
again. 

Nancy  felt  happy  and  inclined  to  kindness.  "  Do  not 
go  yet,"  she  said  to  Mr.  Kingsley.  "  Sit  down  and  talk 
to  me." 

But  Mr.  Kingsley  knew  better.  Delia  Rocca's  melting 
notes  were  drawing  the  girl's  thoughts  away  again,  and 
he  could  notice  the  little  shiver  creep  round  her  face, 
leaving  it  slightly  paler,  as  the  silver  tenor  voice  took  a 
high  A  in  falsetto  and  held  it  long  and  pianissimo. 

"  I  will  come  again  some  day,  if  I  may,"  he  said.  "  But 
I  almost  hope  that  I  shall  find  your  doors  locked." 

Again  the  bird-thought  came  fluttering  into  the 
window  of  Nancy's  mind,  as  the  Englishman's  strong 
hand  closed  firm  and  warm  round  hers. 

Then  the  door  was  shut  on  Mr.  Paul  Kingsley,  and  the 
thought  flew  away  and  was  gone. 

"  Who  is  that  conceited  fool  of  an  Englishman  ?  "  said 
Nino,  who  felt  cross  and  liked  to  show  it. 

Nancy  flushed.  "Please  don't  speak  like  that  about 
Englishmen.  My  father  was  English."  Then  she  added, 
with  a  little  toss  of  her  head :  "  And  he  was  not  a  bit  of  a 
conceited  fool." 

"  I  never  said  he  was,"  said  Nino. 

"  Oh ! "  gasped  Nancy,  "  you  did ! " 

"  I  said  nothing  of  the  kind,"  declared  Nino.  "  Your 
father  was  a  good  and  noble  man." 

"  You  know  I  was  not  talking  of  my  father,"  said  Nancy. 


THE   DEVOURERS  89 

"  No  more  was  I,"  said  Nino. 

Nancy  turned  to  Delia  Rocca,  who  was  preluding 
carelessly  with  smooth  fingers  and  all  his  smiles  alight. 

"  Nino  always  cavils  and  confuses  until  one  does  not 
know  what  one  is  talking  about ! " 

Delia  Rocca  nodded.  "  That  is  just  what  his  celebrated 
friend,  Nunziata  Villari,  said  about  him  when  I  saw  her 
in  Naples.  By  the  way,  Nino,"  —  he  ran  up  a  quick  scale 
of  fourths  and  let  them  fall  in  a  minor  arpeggio  like  tum- 
bling water  —  "  they  say  La  Villari  tried  to  commit  suicide 
last  month.  Locked  herself  up  with  a  brazier  of  coke, 
like  a  love-sick  grisette.  Did  you  hear  about  it  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Nino,  "  I  did  not."  Then  he  looked  long, 
mildly,  fixedly  at  Delia  Rocca,  who  after  a  moment  got 
up  and  said  good-bye. 

When  he  had  left,  Nancy  said  to  Nino :  "  Who  is  La 
Villari  ?  And  why  did  she  try  to  kill  herself  ?  La  Villari ! 
I  thought  that  was  an  actress  who  had  died  a  hundred 
years  ago." 

Nino  took  her  hand.  "You  don't  know  anything, 
Nancy,"  he  said.  "You  don't  even  know  that  you  are  a 
vulture  and  a  shark." 

Nancy  laughed.     "  Yes,  but  who  is  La  Villari  ?  " 

"  She  is  someone  you  have  devoured,"  said  Nino. 

And,  remembering  the  brazier  of  coke,  he  left  for 
Naples  by  the  next  train ;  for,  though  he  had  a  nose  of 
putty,  he  had  a  heart  of  gold. 

XIV 

DURING  the  long,  dreary  journey  in  an  empty  carriage  of 
the  slow  train  Nino  fought  his  battles  and  chastened  his 
soul.  He  set  his  conscience  on  the  empty  seat  before 


90  THE  DEVOUKERS 

him  and  looked  it  in  the  face.  The  desires  of  his  heart 
sat  near  him,  and  took  his  part.  His  conscience  had  a 
dirty  face  that  irritated  him ;  his  desires  were  fair  as 
lilies  and  had  high  treble  voices  that  spoke  loud.  His 
conscience  said  nothing,  only  sat  there  showing  its  dirty 
face  and  irritating  him. 

By  the  time  Bologna  was  reached  the  lilies  had  it  all 
their  own  way.  After  all  he  was  young  —  well,  com- 
paratively young ;  thirty -one  is  young  for  a  man  —  and 
he  had  his  life  before  him,  while  Nunziata — well,  she  had 
lived  her  life.  And  she  had  had  eight  years  of  his :  the 
eight  best  years,  for  after  all  at  thirty-one  a  man  is  not 
young  —  well,  not  so  young.  His  conscience  was  staring 
at  him,  so  he  changed  argument.  Nunziata  did  not 
really  love  him  any  more,  she  had  told  him  so  a  hundred 
times  during  the  last  two  years ;  it  was  a  burden,  a  chain 
of  misery  to  them  both.  She  had  herself  begged  him  to 
leave  her  after  one  of  those  well-remembered,  never- 
ending  scenes  that  were  always  occurring  since  she  had 
finally  abandoned  the  theatre  for  his  sake. 

She  had  said :  "  Go  !  I  implore  you  to  go !  I  cannot 
live  like  this  any  longer !  For  my  sake,  go ! "  So  it  was 
really  in  order  to  please  her  that  he  had  gone. 

The  face  of  his  conscience  opposite  him  was  looking 
dirtier  than  ever.  But  the  treble  voices  of  his  desires  rang 
shrill :  "  He  must  not  forget  his  duties  to  himself  and  to 
others.  He  had  a  duty  to  his  father,  who  longed  to 
have  him  near  him,  settled  happily  and  normally ;  he  had 

a  duty  to  Valeria,  who "  Here  he  quickly  changed 

argument  again.  "  He  had  a  duty  to  Nancy,  to  little, 
innocent,  wonderful  Nancy,  who  understood  nothing  of 
the  world;  she  must  be  saved  from  designing  knaves, 
from  struggling  litterateurs  and  poets  who  would  like  to 


THE  DEVOURERS  91 

marry  her  and  use  her  vogue  in  order  to  scramble  up  to 
a  reputation,  from  the  professional  beau  jeune  homme 
like  Aldo,  who  would  break  her  heart.  ...  It  really  was 

his  duty "  The  train  slowed,  shivered,  and  stopped. 

He  was  glad  to  get  out,  and  rush  to  a  hurried  supper  in 
the  buffet,  because  the  ugly  face  opposite  him  was  more 
than  he  could  stand. 

All  through  the  night  in  the  slow  train  to  Rome  he 
fought  his  battles  and  chastened  his  soul,  and  the  little 
ugly  face  said  not  a  word,  but  looked  at  him. 

When  day  dawned  he  had  broken  the  lilies,  and  they 
lay,  whiter  than  before,  at  his  feet.  And  the  face  of  his 
conscience  was  clean.  When  Rome  was  reached,  where 
he  had  three  hours  to  wait  for  the  Naples  express,  he 
hurried  into  the  telegraph-office  and  sent  a  message  to 
Nunziata : 

"  Arriving  this  evening  at  nine.  Forgive.  Yours  for 
ever,  NINO." 

Then,  just  as  he  was  getting  into  the  hotel  omnibus,  he 
learned  that  a  special  excursion  train  was  leaving  for 
Naples  at  once.  He  could  arrive  four  hours  sooner.  He 
hastened  back  into  the  station,  caught  the  train,  and 
was  already  approaching  Naples  when  La  Villari  received 
his  telegram. 

La  Villari  had  just  begun  her  luncheon,  and  the 
spaghetti  al  burro  e  formaggio  lay  in  a  goodly  heap  of 
pale  gold  on  her  plate.  She  had  just  put  her  fork  into 
them  and  begun  to  turn  it  round  and  round,  when  Teresa 
came  in  excitedly. 

"  A  telegram,  Illustrissima,"  she  said. 

La  Villari  opened  the  telegram.  "  Misericordia !  "  she 
said.  "  He  is  coming  back." 


92  THE  DEVOURERS 

Teresa  cleaned  her  hands  on  her  apron.  What  ?  The 
Signorino  ?  He  was  returning  ? 

"  Yes,  to-night.     At  nine  o'clock,"  sighed  La  Villari. 

Well,  let  the  Illustrissirna  not  allow  the  spaghetti  to  get 
cold.  And  Teresa  sighed  also,  as  she  left  the  room  and 
hustled  the  telegraph-boy  off  without  giving  him  a  tip. 

They  had  been  so  happy  without  the  Signorino. 
They  had  had  such  quiet,  comfortable  meals.  The 
Illustrissima  had  had  no  nerves,  no  convulsions,  but  a 
good  appetite  and  a  pleasant  temper.  Now  it  would  all 
begin  again :  the  excitements,  the  tempers  of  the  Illus- 
trissima ;  the  dinner  left  to  get  cold  while  the  Illustris- 
sima and  the  Signorino  quarrelled ;  the  rushings  out  of 
the  Signorino ;  the  tears  of  the  Illustrissima ;  the  tele- 
phone messages ;  the  visitors  and  relations  to  argue  with 
and  console  the  Illustrissima ;  then  the  returnings  of  the 
Signorino ;  and  supper  for  everybody  in  the  middle  of  the 
night.  It  was  not  a  life. 

Teresa  brought  in  the  auburn  cutlet  a  la  Milanese. 
There !  already  it  was  beginning.  The  Illustrissima  had 
not  eaten  the  spaghetti ! 

"  Do  not  bother  me  with  the  spaghetti,"  said  the  Illus- 
trissima, who  already  had  the  nerves.  "  Let  us  think 
about  this  evening." 

"  Yes,"  said  Teresa.  "  Shall  we  have  vol-au-vent  that 
His  Excellency  likes  ?  " 

"  Oh,  do  not  bother  me  with  vol-au-vent ! "  cried  the 
Illustrissima.  "Do  you  not  understand  that  he  must 
not  find  us  like  this  ?  " 

"  Vossignoria  will  put  on  the  blue  crepe-de-chine 
gown,"  said  Teresa ;  "  and  I  will  order  the  coiffeuse  for 
six  o'clock." 

Yes,  yes ;  but  that  was  not  sufficient.     Nino  must  not 


THE  DEVOURERS  93 

find  her  sitting  there  waiting  for  him,  as  if  she  had  no 
one  in  the  world  but  him. 

"Go  away,  Teresa,  go  away!  I  must  think,"  she 
said.  And  Teresa  went  to  her  kitchen  grumbling. 

La  Villari's  views  of  life  and  her  manner  of  dealing 
with  situations  were  according  to  Sardou,  Dumas,  or 
D'Annunzio.  Nino  must  either  find  her  supine  in  a 
darkened  room,  with  etiolated  cheeks  and  blue  shadows 
under  her  spent  eyes ;  or  then,  after  his  arrival,  she  must 
enter,  coming  from  some  brilliant  banquet,  rose-crowned 
and  laughing.  She  sees  him!  She  vacillates.  Her 
jewelled  hand  clutches  at  her  heart.  "  Nino  !  "  —  and 
he  is  at  her  feet.  .  .  .  Then  he  makes  her  a  scene  of 
jealousy.  Where  has  she  been ?  With  whom?  Where 
was  she  when  his  telegram  arrived?  Who  sends  her 
all  these  flowers?  Pah!  He  throws  them  out  of  the 
window  —  and  all  is  as  it  should  be. 

As  it  happened,  there  were  no  flowers  in  the  room. 
So  La  Villari  rang  the  bell  and  told  Teresa  to  order  fifty 
francs  worth  of  white  roses  and  tuberoses  from  the 
florist,  to  be  brought  as  soon  as  possible,  and  the  hair- 
dresser for  six  o'clock,  and  the  brougham  for  seven. 

"  And,  Teresa !  .  .  ." 

Teresa  turned  back  with  a  dreary  face. 

"  Remember  that  it  was  you  who  opened  the  telegram. 
I  was  out.  I  am  always  out.  With  many  people,  you 
understand." 

Yes,  Teresa  understood.  And  with  callous  back  and 
shuffling  shoes  she  went  away  to  order  the  flowers,  and 
the  brougham,  and  the  hair-dresser. 

La  Villari  unpinned  her  hair,  put  the  greater  part  of  it 
neatly  on  the  dressing-table  in  readiness  for  the  coif- 
feuse,  rubbed  a  little  lanoline  round  her  eyes,  and  settled 


94  THE  DEVOURERS 

herself  with  Matilde  Serao's  "Indomani"  to  one  more 
peaceful  afternoon. 

Love  was  not  peaceful,  it  was  agitating  and  uncom- 
fortable ;  and  keeping  up  the  pretence  of  being  twenty- 
eight  when  one  is  forty-five  is  a  labour  and  a  toil.  Of 
course,  she  adored  Nino ;  the  mere  thought  of  his  ever 
tiring  of  her,  or  leaving  her,  brought  visions  of  despair  and 
vengeance,  of  vitriol  and  dagger  to  her  mind.  But  oh ! 
how  she  envied  those  placid  women  who  surrender  their 
youth  submissively,  and  slip  serenely  into  gentle  middle- 
age  as  a  ship  glides  into  quiet  waters.  With  her,  be- 
cause her  lover  was  young,  she  must  grasp  and  grapple 
with  the  engulfing  years.  She  must  clutch  at  her  youth 
as  a  child  clutches  a  wild  bird  fluttering  to  escape. 
Alas!  when  the  child  opens  its  fingers  the  prisoner  is 
dead.  Better  let  it  fly  when  it  will. 

So  thought  Nunziata  Villari.  The  feathers  and  the 
wings  still  lay  in  her  hand,  but  youth,  the  bird,  was  dead. 

She  took  up  the  book,  and  stifled  thought  under  the 
blanket  of  Matilde  Serao's  warm  prose. 

The  excursion  train  ran  into  Naples  at  five  o'clock,  just 
as  a  florist  in  the  Strada  Caracciolo  was  threading  a  wire 
into  the  green  throat  of  the  last  white  rose  for  the  Illus- 
trissima.  Fifty  francs  worth  of  roses  in  Naples  in  the 
month  of  June  are  enough  to  consummate  the  perfumed 
death  in  Freiligrath's  "  Blumenrache,"  and  then  enough 
to  cover  the  maiden's  coffin  from  wider  to  narrowest  end. 
It  took  two  men  to  carry  them,  tied  in  huge  bunches, 
along  the  Strada  Caracciolo  to  the  Palazzo  Imparato. 

Nino  from  his  cab  saw  two  men  bearing  white  flowers 
far  ahead  of  him,  and  wondered  vaguely  for  whom  they 
might  be. 

Then  he  thought  of  Nunziata's  face  as  he  had  last 


THE   DEVOUKERS  95 

seen  it  —  pallid,  with  a  tortured  smile,  as  she  said  good- 
bye. But  now  he  would  see  her  smile  again,  that  pretty 
tilted  smile  that  was  still  young.  ... 

(The  men  with  the  flowers  had  turned  a  corner.  Nino's 
cab  turned  it,  too,  and  there  were  the  men  again,  march- 
ing before  him.) 

He  had  been  a  brute  and  a  hound,  but  he  would  atone. 
He  would  do  the  right  thing.  Nunziata  should  not  be 
left  in  tears  again,  nor  again  be  driven  to  the  little 
brazier  of  coke,  like  a  lovesick  grisette.  .  .  . 

(The  men  with  the  white  flowers  were  alongside.  Now 
they  were  left  behind.) 

And  now  the  carriage  stopped  at  the  door  of  the 
Palazzo  Imparato.  The  driver  handed  the  luggage 
down,  and  a  waiting  lazzarone  grabbed  and  shouldered 
it.  While  Nino  was  paying  the  fare  the  men  with  the 
flowers  came  up,  and  Nino  turned  to  glance  at  them  as 
they  passed.  But  they  did  not  pass.  They  turned  into 
the  Palazzo  Imparato  and  vanished  in  the  shadow  of 
the  gateway. 

Nino's  heart  leaped  up,  and  stood  still.  The  lazzarone, 
watching  him,  saw  tragedy  in  his  face,  and  was  satisfied 
that  the  tip  would  be  a  large  one ;  for  the  lazzarone  knew 
that  despair  is  as  generous  as  happiness. 

Nino  ran,  blind  with  his  terrors,  up  the  wide  flights  of 
stairs.  On  Nunziata's  landing  the  men  with  the  flowers 
stood  waiting. 

Teresa  opened  the  door,  and  saw  behind  the  roses 
Nino's  wild,  white  face. 

"  The  Signorino  !     Santa  Vergine ! " 

In  an  instantaneous  vision  she  thought  of  the  Illus- 
trissima,  unpowdered,  unprepared,  reading  Matilde 
Serao,  her  tresses  lying  on  the  dressing-room  table.  The 


96  THE   DEVOURERS 

servant's  stupefied,  stricken  face  confirmed  Nino's  fears. 
He  stumbled  forward,  and,  dropping  into  a  seat  in  the 
hall,  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

The  Illustrissima,  who  had  heard  the  noise,  opened  the 
drawing-room  door.  At  a  glance  she  saw  it  all,  and 
quietly  closed  the  door  again. 

When,  an  instant  later,  Nino  rushed  in,  the  room  was 
darkened,  the  shutters  closed ;  Nunziata  lay  on  the  couch 
with  etiolated  face,  a  soft  shimmering  scarf  was  wound 
becomingly  round  her  head,  but  no  blue  shadows  were 
under  her  eyes,  for  there  had  been  no  time  to  make  them. 

Then  all  began  over  again ;  for  although  she  was  peace- 
ful and  comfortable  when  Nino  was  away,  as  soon  as  he 
was  present  she  felt  that  all  things  depended  upon  his 
love,  and  that  his  absence  would  end  her  life.  Tighter 
and  tighter  she  grasped  the  little  dead  bird  in  her  white, 
ringed  hands,  and  louder  and  louder  she  told  her  tired 
heart  that  youth  was  living  and  singing  still. 

Nino  was  kind  and  considerate.  He  also  wrote  letters 
to  the  Italian  Consulates  in  Rio  and  Buenos  Ayres,  asking 
them  to  make  sure  that  Eduardo  Villari  was  really  dead 
—  as  his  cook,  who  had  returned  with  a  good  deal  of 
money  and  had  married  a  baron,  declared  he  was. 

If  the  thought  of  Nancy  knocked  with  light  fingers  at 
Nino's  heart,  he  never  opened  the  door. 

XV 

CLARISSA  in  her  villa  on  Lake  Maggiore  was  bored,  so 
she  wrote  to  Nancy  to  come  and  stay  with  her. 

"I  am  weary  of  my  sweet  blue  lake  and  of  my  sour 
blue  husband.  Come  and  stay  with  me  a  month.  You 
shall  have  a  large  room  at  the  top  of  the  house,  with  a 


THE   DEVOURERS  97 

huge  table  and  an  inkstand  large  enough  to  drown  in,  and 
before  you  the  view  that  inspired  Manzoni.     Come  and 
write  your  masterpiece." 
By  the  same  post  she  sent  a  note  to  her  brother-in-law : 

"  Aldo,  mon  joli,  do  come.  Carlo  is  insufferable.  He 
growls  all  day  and  snores  all  night.  Why  did  I  marry 
him  ?  This  is  the  fourth  time  I  invite  you  this  year, 
and  you  never  come.  Last  year  it  was  different. 

"  Yours, 

"  CLABISSA. 

"P.S.  —  The  little  poetessa  is  going  to  stay  here  for  a 
month." 

He  arrived  next  day.  After  greetings,  he  asked : 
"Where  is  Sappho,  the  violet-haired?"  Clarissa  ex- 
plained that  Nancy  had  not  arrived,  and  he  sulked  and 
played  the  piano  all  the  evening,  while  Carlo  on  the  sofa 
snored.  Clarissa  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  uncertain 
which  of  the  two  was  insulting  her  most. 

Nancy  arrived  the  following  day.  She  had  brought 
her  notebooks  with  her  and  a  broken  ivory  pen  that  she 
always  wrote  with ;  she  was  full  of  the  masterpiece.  She 
was  going  to  work  immediately. 

Driving  up  from  the  landing-place  to  the  Villa  Solitu- 
dine  she  told  her  plans  to  Clarissa,  who  nodded  and 
smiled  as  she  whipped  up  the  fat  cob.  She  was  going 
to  write  a  book —  The  Book ! — a  great,  noble  piece  of  work, 
not  a  little  volume  of  flyaway  poems  that  one  reads  and 
forgets  in  a  day.  She  was  going  to  think  of  and  dream 
of  The  Book ;  to  live  for  The  Book ;  to  breathe  and  walk 
for  it,  to  eat  and  sleep  for  it.  In  Milan,  with  people 
always  round  her,  talking  and  distracting,  it  was  im- 
possible ;  but  here  in  the  large  bare  room  at  the  top  of  the 


98  THE  DEVOURERS 

house How  sweet  and  dear  of  Clarissa  to  think  of 

it !     Never,  never  could  Nancy  thank  her  enough  .  .  . 
Clarissa  nodded  and  smiled,  and  the  fat  cob  turned  into 
the  chestnut  drive  of  Villa  Solitudine. 

Down  the  steps,  with  a  couple  of  dogs  barking  and 
leaping  at  his  heels,  came  Aldo  to  meet  them,  clad  in 
Neapolitan  fashion  in  white  flannels  and  scarlet  sash. 
His  uncovered  head  gleamed  darkly  in  the  sun. 

"  Behold  Endymion  awakened ! "  said  Clarissa,  laugh- 
ing, to  Nancy.  "  Charmides,  Adonai's,  Narcissus !  The 
gods  have  cast  upon  him  all  the  beauty  of  the  world ! " 
As  Nancy  did  not  answer,  Clarissa  turned  to  look  at  her. 
"  Oh,  what  a  stern  face,  ma  cMrie  !  You  are  quite  white. 
What  are  you  thinking  of  ?  " 

"  The  Book,"  said  Nancy ;  and  she  felt  as  if  it  were  a 
child  of  hers  that  was  to  die  unborn. 

"You  shall  write  it,  mon  ange!  Aldo  shall  not  dis- 
turb you."  And  she  threw  the  reins  to  the  little  stiff 
groom ;  then,  daintily  raising  her  fluffy  skirts,  she  alighted 
in  Aide's  uplifted  arms.  Nancy  put  her  foot  on  the  step, 
but  Aldo  raised  her  lightly  and  lifted  her  down.  His  red, 
smiling  mouth  was  close  to  her  face.  She  thanked  him, 
and  he  kissed  her  hand  with  the  ceremonious  Southern 
salute,  "  Signora,  I  am  your  slave." 

Nancy  went  to  her  room  —  the  large,  bare  room  with 
the  beautiful  view  —  and  stayed  there  all  the  afternoon. 
She  put  her  notes  in  order ;  she  placed  the  large  sheets 
of  paper  before  her ;  and  she  dipped  the  broken  ivory  pen 
into  the  huge  inkstand.  Then  she  sat  and  looked  out  of 
the  window.  She  could  hear  the  dogs  barking  in  the 
garden  and  Clarissa's  trilling  laugh.  On  the  sweet  blue 
lake  a  tiny  sail,  like  a  pocket  handkerchief,  dipped  and 
curtseyed  away,  and  through  the  open  windows  of  the 


THE  DEVOURERS  99 

drawing-room  Aldo  could  be  heard  playing  a  Valse 
Triste.  Nancy  dipped  the  pen  into  the  inkstand  again 
—  and  looked  at  the  view. 

Now  she  heard  the  music  wander  off  in  modulating 
chords  which  resolved  themselves  into  the  rippling  ac- 
companiment of  Hugo  Wolff's  "  Musikant." 

"  Wenn  wir  zwei  zusammen  waren 
Wiird'  das  Singen  mir  vergeh'n." 

She  could  hear  the  soft  tenor  voice,  and  felt  it  drawing 
at  her  heart.  She  closed  the  window  and  sat  down  again. 
She  dipped  the  ivory  pen  into  the  inkstand,  and  wrote  at 
the  top  of  the  white  sheet,  "  Villa  Solitudine,"  and  the 
date.  Under  it,  as  she  had  not  thought  of  a  title  yet,  she 
wrote  in  large  letters  : 

"THE  BOOK." 

Then  she  jumped  up  and  ran  downstairs. 

At  sunset  they  went  out  in  a  sailing-boat.  Clarissa 
held  the  rudder,  and  Aldo  stood  in  easy  attitudes  of 
beauty  at  the  sail.  The  glow  of  the  west  was  on  his  pure 
young  face,  and  the  wind  of  the  tramontanes  raised  his 
waved  hair  and  blew  it  lightly  across  his  forehead.  He 
was  silent,  satisfied  to  know  that  the  two  women  could 
see  him,  and  that  the  red-gold  sky  was  a  good  back- 
ground for  his  profile.  Clarissa  talked  and  laughed, 
twittered  and  purred;  but  Aldo  never  spoke.  And  it 
was  his  silence  that  enraptured  Nancy. 

"  Ed  io  che  intesi  cio  che  non  dicevi, 
M'innamorai  di  te  perchfc  tacevi." 

Stecchetti's  words  sang  in  her  brain  with  new  meaning, 
and  in  the  days  that  followed  the  two  smooth  lines  were 
always  in  her  mind. 

Aldo  knew  little,  but  he   knew  the  value  of  silence. 


100  THE  DEVOURERS 

He  knew  the  lure  of  the  hortus  condusus  —  the  Closed 
Garden  into  which  one  has  not  stepped.  Nancy  stood 
outside  its  gates  and  dreamed  of  its  unseen  roses,  of 
fountains  and  shadowy  paths  and  water-lilied  lakes. 
For  Aldo  was  a  closed  garden. 

Aldo  also  knew  the  value  of  his  eyes  —  deep,  passion- 
lit  eyes,  that  looked,  Clarissa  said,  as  if  he  had  rubbed 
the  lids  with  burnt  cork  to  darken  them.  When  he 
raised  them  suddenly,  and  looked  straight  at  Nancy,  she 
felt  a  little  shock  of  pleasure  that  took  her  breath  away. 
Little  by  little,  day  by  day,  those  eyes  drew  Nancy's 
spirit  to  their  depths  —  she  leaned  over  them  as  over  an 
abyss.  In  them  she  sunk  and  drowned  her  soul.  .  .  . 
Then,  when  from  his  eyes  her  own  passionate  purity  gazed 
back  at  her,  she  thought  she  saw  his  soul  and  not  her  own. 

The  Book  cried  in  her  now  and  then,  but  she  stifled  its 
voice  and  whispered :  "  Wait !  " 

And  The  Book  waited. 

One  day  in  the  garden  Aldo  spoke  to  Clarissa.  She 
was  in  the  hammock  pretending  to  read. 

"  Clarissa,  I  am  twenty-five  years  old." 

"  Vlan  !  qa  y  est ! "  said  Clarissa,  dropping  her  book. 
Then  she  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  her  nostrils  turned  a 
little  pale ;  but  the  superposed  roses  of  her  cheeks  bloomed 
on,  independent  of  her  ebbing  blood  and  sickening  heart. 

"  I  am  penniless,"  continued  Aldo,  picking  a  piece  of 
grass  and  chewing  it ;  "  and  Carlo  has  given  me  to  under- 
stand that  he  can  exist  without  me  if  he  tries  very  hard." 

Clarissa  sat  up.  "  When  ?  What  did  he  say  ?  Does 
he  ...  has  he  ...  did  he  mean  anything  ?  " 

Aldo  shook  his  comely  head.  "  Carlo  never  means 
anything.  But  I  shall  have  to  go  back  to  —  to  the  Texas 
ranch,  or  marry." 


THE  DEVOURERS  101 

The  Texas  ranch  was  a  romantic  invention  of  Clarissa's, 
the  only  foundation  for  which  was  a  three  weeks'  holiday 
which  Aldo  had  once  spent  in  the  city  of  New  York. 

Clarissa  bit  her  red,  narrow  lips.     "  Yes,"  she  said. 

During  the  long  pause  that  followed  Aldo  picked 
another  piece  of  grass  and  chewed  it. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Clarissa,  looking  at  him  sideways 
through  her  long  lids,  "  you  will  marry  some  affectionate 
old  thing  with  money." 

"  No.  I  know  them/'  said  Aldo.  "  They  demand  the 
affection,  and  keep  the  money." 

After  a  pause,  in  which  he  felt  Clarissa's  angry  eyes 
on  his  face,  he  said :  "  I  am  going  to  marry  the  little 
Sappho." 

Clarissa  laughed  suddenly  and  loud.  "You  do  that 
for  your  pleasure !  Farceur,  va  !  "  Aldo  lifted  his  per- 
fect eyebrows  and  did  not  reply.  "  She  has  nothing,  not 
a  little  black  sou ! "  And  Clarissa  stuck  her  long  pointed 
thumbnail  behind  her  long  pointed  teeth  and  jerked  it 
forward. 

"  Oh !  I  dare  say  she  has  something,"  said  Aldo,  pre- 
tending to  yawn  carelessly.  "Besides,  she  is  a  genius, 
and  can  earn  what  she  will." 

"  You  are  the  perfect  Neapolitan  pig,"  said  Clarissa, 
and  closed  her  eyes. 

The  perfect  Neapolitan  pig  rose  with  an  offended  air 
and  left  her.  He  strolled  into  the  house  and  took  his  hat 
and  stick,  then  he  strolled  out  again  and  through  the 
garden  into  the  hot  street  and  down  to  the  landing- 
place.  A  boat  was  leaving  for  Intra,  so  he  went  on  board, 
and  at  Intra  took  the  train  for  Milan.  He  dined  at 
Biffi's,  feeling  happy. 

"They  will  be  miserable,"  he  said.     "That  will  teach 


102  THE   DEVOURERS 

them."  Then  he  went  to  his  furnished  rooms  on  the 
Corso,  and  slept  well. 

In  Villa  Solitudine  they  were  miserable,  and  it  taught 
them. 

It  taught  Nancy  that  the  Closed  Garden  she  had  had  a 
glimpse  pf  for  so  brief  an  hour  was  the  only  garden  in  the 
world  that  she  ever  wanted  to  enter;  and  that  all  the 
words  Aldo  had  not  said  were  the  only  words  she  ever 
wanted  to  hear ;  that  perfect  goodness  and  unwavering 
strength  must  lie  behind  his  portentous  beauty,  white 
and  immovable  like  marble  lions  at  a  palace  gate. 

It  taught  Clarissa  that  one  must  accept  the  inevitable 
—  that  half  a  loaf  was  better  than  no  bread,  and  that  a 
married  Aldo  was  better  than  no  Aldo  at  all.  It  made 
her  look  at  Nancy  with  closer  eyes,  and  say  to  herself  that 
she  was  a  little  creature  one  would  easily  tire  of,  in  spite 
of  —  or  because  of — her  intellectuality.  Aldo  was  not  a 
closed  garden  for  Clarissa ;  she  knew  the  feeble  flowers 
that  bowed  behind  its  gates. 

A  hot,  dreary  week  passed  with  no  news  from  Aldo. 
Then  Clarissa  telegraphed  to  him  at  Milan.  She  said  she 
had  told  Carlo  about  their  conversation  regarding  his 
wish  to  marry  Nancy,  and  Carlo  approved.  Would  he 
come  back  ? 

Yes ;  Aldo  would  come  back.  He  waited  another 
day  or  two,  and  at  the  close  of  a  sultry  afternoon  he 
sauntered  in,  just  as  he  had  sauntered  out,  across  the 
sleepy,  bee-droning  lawns  of  the  Villa  Solitudine.  He 
stopped  at  the  entrance  of  the  summer-house,  where  Nancy 
sat  reading  a  letter  —  a  long  letter.  Already  two  of  the 
blue  sheets  had  fallen  at  her  side.  Before  her  on  the 
table  was  the  inkstand  and  the  ivory  pen  and  The 
Book.  As  his  shadow  passed  the  threshold  she  looked 


THE  DEVOUKERS  103 

up ;  she  drew  a  quick  breath,  and  her  face  turned  milky 
white,  with  a  pallor  that  gripped  at  Aldo's  nerves. 

Once  more,  and  for  the  last  time,  he  bent  his  head  over 
her  hand.  "  Signora,  I  am  your  slave,"  he  said.  But 
as  he  raised  his  eyes  she  knew  that  he  had  said :  "  Nancy, 
I  am  your  master." 

"  Who  writes  to  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  drooped  submissive  lashes,  and  the  colour  ran  into 
her  cheeks.  "Mr.  Kingsley,  the  English  friend,"  she 
said.  "  Do  you  remember  him  ?  " 

Aldo  took  her  hand  and  with  it  the  letter  in  his  own. 

"What  does  he  want? " 

Her  dimples  fluttered.  "  He  wants  me  to  be  good,"  she 
said,  laughing,  with  wistful  eyes.  "  And  to  write." 

Aldo  pressed  the  little  fist  with  the  crumpled  blue 
letter  in  it  to  his  lips.  "  Well,  write,"  he  said.  "  Write 
at  once." 

He  took  the  ivory  pen  and  dipped  it  in  the  ink  and  put 
it  in  her  hand;  then  he  pulled  the  sheet  of  white  paper 
which  was  to  be  The  Book  before  her. 

"  Write :  '  Dear  Englishman,  I  am  going  to  marry 
Aldo  della  Kocca.  He  adores  me.'  " 

And  Nancy,  with  her  hair  almost  touching  the  paper, 
wrote:  "Dear  Englishman,  I  am  going  to  marry  Aldo 
della  E-occa.  I  adore  him." 

The  Englishman  never  got  the  letter.  But  he  heard 
of  it  afterwards ;  and  his  English  fists  closed  tight. 

XVI 

NANCY  walked  among  asphodels  and  morning  glory ; 
and  her  soul  was  plunged  in  happiness  and  her  eyes  were 
washed  with  light. 


104  THE   DEVOURERS 

The  Book  waited. 

They  went  out  in  the  little  boat  at  sunset.  Aldo  stood 
at  the  sail,  and  the  red  sky  was  a  background  for  his 
profile. 

"  Oh,"  sighed  Nancy,  looking  at  him  and  clasping 
puerile  hands,  "  your  beauty  aches  me !  " 

Aldo  quite  understood  it,  and  was  pleased. 

They  went  for  long  walks  to  Premeno  and  San  Salva- 
tore;  as  Clarissa  refused  to  accompany  them,  Carlo 
chaperoned  them,  blandly  bored. 

Soon  Valeria  arrived.  Nancy  went  down  to  meet  her 
at  the  landing-place,  looking  ethereal  and  pink  as  a 
spray  of  apple-blossom.  Valeria  kissed  her  with  hot 
tears.  "  Oh  !  my  baby,  my  baby  !  "  she  said,  and  wished 
that  the  seventeen  years  were  a  dream,  and  that  her 
child's  small  head  were  still  safely  nestling  at  her  breast. 
In  Nancy's  young  love  she  lived  the  days  of  her  own 
betrothal  over  again,  and  Tom  arose  in  her  memory  and 
was  with  her  day  and  night.  On  this  same  silky  blue 
lake  Tom  had  so  often  rowed  her  with  Zio  Giacomo,  in  a 
little  boat  called  Luisa.  She  tearfully  begged  Nancy 
and  Aldo  to  come  with  her  and  see  if  they  could  not  find 
that  very  selfsame  boat. 

They  found,  indeed,  three  Luisas,  but  Valeria  could 
not  recognize  them ;  still,  all  three  of  the  boatmen  de- 
clared that  they  remembered  her  perfectly,  and  got  the 
expected  tip. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Valeria,  deeply  moved,  "  it  cannot 
have  been  all  three  of  them." 

And  Aldo  said :  "  You  should  not  have  given  them 
anything.  They  were  none  of  them  more  than  twenty- 
five  years  old."  Whereupon  Valeria  sighed  deeply. 

Then  it  was  decided  that  they  should  go  in  reverent 


THE   DEVOURERS  105 

pilgrimage  to  the  Madonna  del  Monte,  where  Nancy's 
father  had  asked  Nancy's  mother  to  marry  him.  The 
road  was  lined  with  beggars :  shouting  cripples,  exhibit- 
ing sores  and  stumps. 

"  Some  of  these  are  very  old,"  sighed  Valeria.  "  I  am 
sure  they  were  here  that  day,  and  must  have  seen  me." 

"  I  shall  give  a  franc  to  every  one  of  them,"  said 
Nancy,  taking  out  her  small  fat  purse,  as  the  first  one- 
armed  mendicant  held  out  his  greasy  hat. 

" My  dear  Nancy,  what  nonsense ! "  said  Aldo.  " There 
are  about  a  hundred  of  them  ! " 

"Well  ?"  and  Nancy  raised  clear,  questioning  eyes  to  his. 

"  Oh,  /don't  mind,"  said  Aldo,  with  a  little  Neapolitan 
shrug. 

Valeria  looked  at  the  handsome  figure  and  impeccable 
profile  of  her  future  son-in-law,  as  he  strolled  beside  them 
up  the  steep  wide  road.  Her  heart  was  heavy  with  recol- 
lections. Up  this  road  she  had  walked  in  her  blue  dress 
and  scarlet  tie  with  Tom  beside  her  —  Tom,  broad  and 
careless  in  his  slouchy  brown  suit,  who  had  given  the 
beggars  all  his  coppers  and  silver,  just  as  Tom's  daughter 
was  doing  to-day.  Again  she  looked  at  Aldo's  slim, 
straight  shoulders  and  sighed.  "  I  wish  it  had  been  an 
Englishman  !  "  she  thought.  Then,  as  her  memory  took 
her  to  England,  she  saw  someone  else.  "  Or,  then,  poor 
dear  Nino."  And  she  sighed  again ;  but  not  altogether 
for  Nancy's  sake. 

She  wrote  to  Nino  that  evening,  and,  almost  without 
knowing  it,  began  her  letter,  "  Poor  dear  Nino ! " 

Nino  was  out  interviewing  Consuls  about  the  presum- 
ably deceased  Edoardo  Villari  when  the  letter  arrived. 
So  Nunziata  opened  the  letter. 

In     it  Valeria  told  Nino  that    Nancy,   "our    little 


106  THE   DEVOURERS 

Nancy,"  was  betrothed  to  Aldo  della  Rocca,  and  could 
Nino  not  do  anything  to  prevent  it?  And  why,  oh 
why,  had  his  sister  Clarissa  invited  them  both  to  stay  at 
the  Villa  Solitudine,  so  that,  as  Fraulein  Muller — or  was  it 
Heine  ?  —  used  to  say,  "  Wie  konnte  es  anders  sein,"  for 
how  could  anyone  see  Nancy  in  the  resplendency  of  her 
seventeen  Aprils  and  not  fall  in  love  with  her  ?  And  oh, 
she  was  so  sorry  for  poor,  dear  Nino,  for  she  knew  the 
secret  of  his  heart.  And  how  true  it  was  what  he  had  said 
about  Nancy's  eyes  being  so  pure  that  they  seemed  never 
to  have  gazed  at  aught  but  the  sky ;  and  she  understood 
him  and  his  sufferings,  for  had  she  not  herself  suffered 
dreadfully  through  him,  years  ago  —  but  never  mind,  that 
was  nothing.  And  it  had  never  been  dear,  dear  Nino's 
fault  at  all ;  it  was  her  own  foolish  fault  and  Fate.  .  .  . 
And  she  hoped  Nino  did  not  think  that  she  had  really 
suffered,  for  she  had  not,  and  now  she  never,  never 
thought  of  it  any  more!  And  if  he  came  quickly  he 
might  still  be  in  time;  and  oh,  she  knew  he  must  be 
heart-broken,  but  he  was  not  to  mind,  because  it  could 
not  be  helped.  And  she  was  ever  his  unhappy  Valeria. 

Nunziata  read  the  rambling  letter  three  times  before 
she  understood  it.  The  letter  opened  her  eyes. 

When  her  eyes  were  open  Nunziata  saw  well.  She 
saw  the  chain  of  desire  stretching  out  ring  on  ring :  from 
Valeria's  heart  to  Nino;  from  Nino's  heart  to  Nancy; 
from  Nancy's  heart  to  Aldo,  as  in  a  children's  game ;  and 
Love  passing  down  from  one  to  the  other,  stopping  before 
each  with  gift  of  passion,  of  pain,  of  joy.  She  saw  that 
her  years  placed  her  behind  Valeria  —  far  back,  far  back, 
out  of  the  game ;  and  she  knew  that  Love  had  passed  her, 
and  would  not  stop  before  her  any  more.  Then  she 
remembered  that  she  had  had  her  gifts ;  that  Love  had 


THE  DEVOUKERS  107 

heaped  roses  at  her  feet,  and  that  she  had  moved  through 
passions  as  through  a  field  of  flowers. 

Nunziata  decided  that  she  would  play  the  game. 

She  went  with  her  newly-opened  eyes  to  her  room  and 
threw  the  shutters  back.  She  looked  at  her  tired  pink 
face  in  the  glass,  at  her  crimson  lips  and  complicated  hair. 
She  went  on  her  knees  beside  her  bed  and  said  three 
Paters  and  three  Aves.  Then  she  opened  her  reluctant 
hands  and  gave  her  dead  youth  back  to  God. 

She  washed  her  face  with  warm  water  and  soap,  and 
unpinned  her  elaborate  curls.  She  wound  her  own  soft 
hair  round  her  head,  and  put  on  a  plain  black  gown. 
Then,  looking,  although  she  did  not  think  so,  twenty 
years  younger  and  twenty  times  sweeter  than  she  did 
before,  she  went  downstairs  to  wait  for  Nino. 

That  same  evening  she  sent  him  back  to  his  father. 
His  luggage  was  packed  and  the  brougham  was  waiting 
for  him  at  the  door,  and  still  he  declared  he  would  not 
go.  He  would  not  leave  her.  Her  face  was  whiter  than 
any  poudre  de  lys  could  ever  make  it  as  she  kissed  his 
forehead,  and  blessed  it  with  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and 
told  him  that  he  must  indeed  go,  and  not  return  again. 

At  last,  before  his  stubborn  refusal,  she  took  the 
weapon  that  hurt  her  most,  and  used  it  to  pierce  her  own 
heart.  "  Think  of  Nancy  ! "  she  said.  "  You  may  still 
be  in  time  to  prevent  her  from  marrying  an  adventurer." 

Nino  looked  into  the  pale,  kind  face,  from  which  every 
trace  of  triviality  had  been  washed  by  the  warm  water 
and  the  tears.  And,  being  a  man,  he  did  not  wait,  and 
refuse,  and  then  catch  a  later  train;  but  with  candid 
cruelty  he  said:  "You  are  right.  You  are  an  angel. 
May  the  saints  bless  you ! " 


108  THE  DEVOURERS 

.  .  .  She  stood  on  the  balcony  and  watched  the 
carriage  drive  away  into  the  night ;  it  turned  up  Corso 
Umberto  and  was  gone.  With  it  the  lights  went  out  in 
Nunziata  Villari's  life. 

Youth,  love,  hope,  desire  —  Fate  blew  all  the  candles 
out,  and  left  her  in  the  dark. 


XVII 

ALDO'S  curved  red  lips  under  his  very  young  moustache 
opened  to  words  as  well  as  to  kisses  under  Nancy's 
impelling,  eager  love.  During  the  long  hours  they  spent 
together  she  spoke  and  he  must  answer.  His  splendid, 
silent  eyes  urged  her  to  quick  questionings,  and  his  kisses 
did  not  still  the  thirst  of  her  soul  for  his  soul.  Little  by 
little  she  pushed  back  the  gates  of  the  Closed  Garden ; 
gently,  day  by  day,  she  ventured  a  step  farther  adown 
the  mysterious  paths.  Where  are  the  arbours  of  roses  ? 
Where  the  fountains  and  the  deep,  water-lilied  lakes  ? 
She  tiptoed  down  the  narrow  paths  that  Clarissa  and 
many  others  had  trodden  before  her,  and  when  she  had 
come  to  the  end  she  said :  "  I  am  mistaken.  I  have  not 
entered  the  Garden  yet." 

They  were  to  be  married  almost  at  once.  Aldo  was 
impatient,  and  Nancy  was  in  love ;  and  The  Book  was 
waiting.  So  Valeria  left  for  Milan  to  prepare  the  trous- 
seau, and  Nancy  must  follow  a  week  later.  On  the  eve 
of  her  journey  Clarissa  went  up  to  say  good-night  to 
Nancy  in  her  room  —  the  large,  bare  room  in  which  the 
masterpiece  had  not  been  written.  Nancy's  trunks 
were  packed.  The  ivory  pen  and  The  Book  were  put 
away.  The  large  inkstand  stood  alone  on  the  large  table. 

Nancy  was  leaning  out  of  the  window  looking  at  the 


THE  DEVOURERS  109 

stars.  Clarissa  came  and  stood  behind  her  and  looked  up 
into  the  cobalt  depths. 

"  I  hate  the  stars,"  said  Nancy ;  "  I  am  afraid  of  them." 

"  Why  ?  "  said  Clarissa,  to  whom  a  star  was  a  star. 

"  Oh,  I  want  to  be  sure  that  somewhere  they  leave  off," 
said  Nancy.  "  It  terrifies  me  to  think  of  fabulous 
nothingness  behind  unending  space,  of  perpetual  never- 
ness  beyond  unceasing  time.  I  should  like  a  wall  built 
round  the  universe,  a  wall  that  would  shut  me  safely  in, 
away  from  the  terrible  infinity." 

Clarissa  laughed.  "Perhaps  when  you  are  married 
you  will  feel  less  little  and  lonely." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Nancy.  And  she  added:  "Aldo 
must  be  the  wall." 

"  Oh,  my  dear,"  said  Clarissa,  "  Don't  try  to  make 
poor  Aldo  anything  that  he  isn't.  He  is  sweet;  he  is 
lovely;  he  is  full  of  talent.  But  he  is  no  more  a  wall 
than  this  is."  And  she  waved  her  filmy  gossamer  scarf 
that  blew  lightly  in  the  air. 

That  evening  Carlo  said  to  his  wife:  "I  feel  like  a 
brute,  letting  that  good-for-nothing  brother  of  mine 
marry  the  nice  little  girl.  He  will  make  her  miserable." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Clarissa,  putting  out  the  candle  with 
her  book,  a  thing  Carlo  could  not  bear.  "  She  will  write 
poems  on  his  profile  and  be  perfectly  happy,  until  she  gets 
tired  of  him  for  not  being  something  that  he  isn't." 

"  Oh,  well,"  growled  Carlo.  "  I  suppose  you  know 
her  best.  Women  are  cackling  cats." 

"Mixed  metaphor,"  murmured  Clarissa,  and  went  to 
sleep  comfortably,  feeling  that  Carlo  was  a  wall. 

Nancy  was  married  in  Rome.  All  the  poets  of  Italy 
came  with  poems,  and  Nino  brought  a  necklet  of  pearls 


110  THE   DEVOURERS 

From  the  Quirinal  came  a  pendant,  with  a  picture  of  a 
boy's  face  set  in  diamonds. 

After  the  wedding-breakfast  all  the  guests  left,  passing 
to  their  carriages  down  the  red  carpet  that  stretched 
from  the  door  to  the  edge  of  the  pavement.  Then 
Nancy,  in  her  mouse-grey  travelling-gown,  kissed  Valeria, 
and  wept  and  said  good-bye.  And  kissed  Nino,  and 
wept  and  said  good-bye.  And  she  went  with  her 
husband  down  the  red  carpet  to  the  carriage.  Carlo 
and  Clarissa,  Aunt  Carlotta  and  Adele  followed  to  the 
station,  where  there  were  great  crowds  waiting  to  see 
them  off. 

Valeria  and  Nino  remained  alone  in  the  desolate  room. 
Valeria's  face  was  hidden  in  her  hands.  She  was  looking 
down  the  days  of  the  future,  and  saw  them  lonely,  dark 
and  desolate.  Nino  gazed  through  tear-blurred  eyes  at 
the  bowed  figure  before  him,  and  his  thoughts  went  back 
through  the  years.  Bending  forward,  he  took  her  hand 
and  kissed  it.  She  smiled  wanly. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of?  "  she  said. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  Nancy,  and  of  the  past,"  said  Nino. 
"  Of  her  father,  poor  Tom,  who  died  so  suddenly " 

"  It  was  to  save  Nancy,"  said  Valeria. 

"  And  of  the  old  grandfather  who  died  alone  on  the 
hillside " 

"  We  had  to  find  Nancy,"  said  Valeria. 

"  And  of  little  Edith  and  her  poor  mother,  forsaken  in 
their  darkest  hour  by  those  they  loved " 

"  But  it  was  to  safeguard  Nancy,"  said  Valeria. 

Hearing  her  words,  he  realized  the  puissance  of  all- 
conquering,  maternal  love.  Nothing  mattered  but 
Nancy,  though  Nancy  herself,  with  gentle,  unconscious 
hands,  had  taken  all  things  from  her.  Had  not  he  him- 


THE   DEVOURERS  111 

self,  the  lover  of  Valeria's  girlhood,  turned  from  her, 
heart-stricken  for  Nancy  ? 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  And  I  am  thinking  of  you,  Valeria,  over  whose  heart 
I  have  trampled,  .  .  ."  said  Nino,  with  a  break  in  his 
voice. 

"  You  could  not  help  it.  You  loved  Nancy,"  said 
Valeria.  "  And  now "  —  her  pitying  eyes  filled  with 
tears  —  "your  hope  is  shipwrecked  and  your  heart 
broken,  too." 

Nino  did  not  answer.  He  turned  away  and  gazed  out 
of  the  window.  He  was  thinking  of  Nancy,  so  mild  and 
sweet-voiced,  with  eyes  like  blue  hyacinths  under  the 
dark  drift  of  her  hair.  And  once  more  he  realized  how 
Nancy  in  her  dove-like  innocence  had  absorbed  and 
submerged  the  existence  of  those  around  her.  Her 
sweet  helplessness  itself  had  wrecked  and  shattered, 
had  devastated  and  destroyed.  The  lives  of  all  those 
who  loved  her  had  gone  to  nourish  the  clear  flame  of 
her  genius,  the  white  fire  of  her  youth. 

Nino  gazed  down  at  the  red  wedding-carpet  that 
stretched  its  scarlet  line  to  the  pavement's  edge  like  a 
narrow  path  of  blood. 

"  Behold,"  he  said,  "  the  trail  of  the  dear  devourer  — 
the  course  of  the  dove  of  prey ! " 

As  the  train  glided  out  of  the  station,  and  shook  and 
ran,  and  the  cheers  and  the  waving  handkerchiefs  were 
left  behind,  Nancy  raised  her  eyes,  tender  and  tearlit,  to 
Aldo's  face.  Her  white  wedded  hand  was  to  open  the 
gates  of  the  Closed  Garden. 

Now  the  bowers  of  roses,  and  the  fountains,  and  the 
water-lilied  lakes! 


112  THE  DEVOUREKS 


XVIII 

THEY  had  chosen  to  go  toParis,  because  Aldo  said  he  had 
had  enough  of  landscapes  to  last  him  a  lifetime.  Also 
Clarissa  had  remarked  to  Nancy :  "  If  you  want  to  have 
a  clear  vision  of  life,  and  a  well-balanced  brain,  always 
be  properly  dressed.  And  you  cannot  be  dressed  at  all 
unless  you  are  dressed  by  Paquin." 

"But  I  have  my  work  to  think  about,"  said  Nancy. 
"  I  do  not  mind  much  about  clothes." 

"Very  well,"  said  Clarissa,  "if  you  want  to  be  a 
dowdy  genius  and  quarrel  with  your  husband  before  you 
have  been  married  two  months,  go  your  own  way,  and 
wear  coats  and  skirts." 

So  they  went  to  Paris,  and  soon  Paquin' s  gibble- 
gabbling  demoiselles  were  busy  sewing  cloudy  blues  and 
faint  mauves  to  save  Nancy  from  quarrelling  with  Aldo 
two  months  afterwards. 

At  Aldo's  suggestion  they  took  rooms  in  a  small  hotel 
in  Eue  Lafayette,  for,  as  he  said,  they  were  not  million- 
aires, and  one  could  use  one's  money  better  than  in  spend- 
ing it  at  grand  hotels.  Nancy  said  he  was  quite  right, 
and  wondered  at  his  wisdom.  Indeed,  he  knew  many 
things.  He  knew  the  prices  of  everything  one  ate,  and 
he  pounced  on  the  waiters  as  soon  as  there  was  any 
attempt  at  overcharging,  or  if  they  absent-mindedly 
reckoned  in  the  date  written  at  the  top  of  the  bill  in  a 
line  with  the  francs. 

Nancy  rather  dreaded  that  moment  in  the  brilliant 
restaurant  when  Aldo  opened  and  inspected  the  neatly- 
folded  bill,  while  the  solemn-nosed  waiter  looked  down 
sarcastically  at  his  smooth,  well-brushed  head.  Nancy 


THE   DEVOURERS  113 

noticed  that,  whenever  they  entered  a  place,  everyone 
ran  to  meet  them,  opening  doors  for  them  with  obsequious 
bows,  showing  them  places  with  flourish  of  arm  and  of 
table-napkin.  Aldo's  hat  was  taken  from  him  with 
reverential  hand,  and  her  cloak  was  carried  tenderly 
from  her.  But  when,  after  settling  the  bill,  they  got  up 
to  go,  nobody  seemed  to  pay  much  attention  to  them. 
Aldo  had  to  fetch  his  own  hat  and  look  for  the  cloak,  and 
even  to  open  the  heavy  glass  doors  himself,  for  the  small 
boy  would  be  absent,  or  looking  another  way  and  making 
faces  at  the  head-waiter.  Cabs  also  had  a  way  of  being 
all  smiles  and  hat-touchings  and  little  jokes  when  they 
were  hailed,  and  all  sullenness  and  loud  monologue  when 
they  were  dismissed. 

"They  think  that  because  we  are  on  our  honeymoon 
we  must  be  fools.  Money  is  money,"  said  Aldo. 

He  had  learnt  the  phrase  from  his  grandfather,  who 
had  kept  a  shop  in  Via  Caracciolo.  The  grandfather's 
wife  —  who  in  her  radiant  girlhood  in  Piedigrotta  had  sat 
for  English  and  German  painters  —  had  said :  "  Yes ;  but 
education  is  education,"  and  had  sent  her  three  sons  to 
school  in  Modena  and  Milan.  The  eldest  son,  who  was 
the  father  of  Carla  and  Aldo,  had  then  learnt  to  say : 
"A  gentleman  is  a  gentleman."  And  on  the  strength 
of  this  he  would  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  his  shop- 
keeping  parents  in  Naples.  When  he  died  Carlo,  who 
was  twenty,  went  and  hunted  up  the  old  people.  They 
did  not  need  him,  and  were  afraid  of  him,  and  called  him 
"  Eccellenza."  But  Aldo,  who  was  thirteen,  and  un- 
verisimilarly  beautiful,  they  called  "  PAmorino" ;  they 
petted  and  spoiled  him,  and  let  him  count  the  money  in 
the  till.  And  he  liked  them  and  their  shop.  And  he 
learnt  that  money  was  money. 


114  THE   DEVOURERS 

The  phrase  always  struck  Nancy  mute.  Aldo,  stroll- 
ing beside  her  along  the  boulevard,  continued :  "  It  is 
people  like  Carlo  that  spoil  things.  Carlo  is  a  perfect 
idiot  with  his  money." 

"  Oh,  but  he  is  very  kind,"  said  Nancy ;  and  Aldo 
wondered  whether  she  knew  that  Carlo  was  paying  all 
their  expenses  —  made  out  with  fanciful  additions  by 
Aldo  —  and  had  promised  to  do  so  for  a  year  after  their 
marriage. 

"  After  that,  not  one  penny.  Never  as  long  as  I  live," 
Carlo  had  said  to  his  young  brother  a  week  before  the 
wedding.  "  So  hustle  and  do  something  useful." 

But  Aldo  did  not  intend  to  hustle.  Rude,  unaesthetic 
word!  A  man  with  his  physique  could  not  hustle. 
Carlo  lacked  all  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things.  Clarissa 
said  so,  too.  But  on  this  occasion  Aldo  did  not  consult 
Clarissa,  because  she  had  once  said :  "  I  understand  ador- 
ing a  man,  but  I  do  not  understand  paying  his  debts." 

Nancy  soon  found  that  Aldo's  knowledge  extended 
further  than  accounts  and  prices.  He  knew  places  in 
Paris,  and  he  knew  people  —  such  places  and  such  people 
as  she  had  never  heard  of,  read  of,  or  dreamt  of.  He 
always  said  to  Nancy  :  "  Now  you  shall  see  things  that 
will  make  you  laugh."  But  Nancy  laughed  little,  then 
less ;  until  one  day  she  could  not  laugh  at  all.  She  felt 
as  if  she  would  never  laugh  any  more.  Everything  was 
horrible,  everything  made  her  shrink  and  weep. 

"  It  is  life,  my  dear,"  said  Aldo,  with  his  habitual  little 
gesture  of  both  hands  outwards  and  upwards.  "  How 

I    can  you  write  books  if  you  do  not  know  what  is  life  ?  " 
Oh,  but  she  did  not  want  to  know  what  is  life.     She 
could  write  books  without  knowing.     And  oh,  she  wished 
:  that  Aldo  did  not  know  either.     And  let  them  go  away 


THE  DEVOUKERS  115 

quickly,  and  forget,  and  never,  never  remember  it  any 
more. 

So  Aldo,  who  was  not  unkind,  and  who  had  not  found 
the  enlightening  of  Nancy  as  amusing  as  he  had  ex- 
pected, called  for  the  hotel  bill,  said  it  was  preposterous, 
got  the  proprietor  to  deduct  twelve  per  cent.,  and  then  told 
him  they  were  leaving  the  next  day. 

The  next  day  they  left.  They  went  to  the  Villa 
Solittidine,  which  Clarissa  and  Carlo  were  not  using,  and 
for  which  it  was  arranged  that  Aldo  should  pay  rent  to 
Clarissa.  Clarissa  let  him  off  the  rent ;  and  Carlo,  not 
knowing,  paid  it  back  to  him.  So  that,  on  the  whole, 
it  was  not  an  unprofitable  arrangement  for  Aldo. 

Nancy  tried  to  forget  what  life  was,  and  smiled  and 
blossomed  in  tenuous  sunrise  beauty.  And  because  of 
all  she  knew,  and  was  trying  to  forget,  and  because  she 
wore  trailing  Parisian  gowns  and  large,  plumed  hats, 
Aldo  burned  with  volcanic  meridional  love  for  her. 

The  Book  waited. 

One  evening,  when  Aldo  was  at  the  piano,  improvising 
music  and  words  on  Nancy's  loveliness,  and  she  sat  on 
a  stool  beside  him,  she  asked  suddenly:  "When  shall 
we  begin  to  work  ?  " 

"  Oh,  never ! "  said  Aldo,  putting  his  right  arm  round 
her  neck  without  interrupting  the  chords  he  was  playing 
with  his  left  hand. 

Nancy  laughed,  and  laid  her  head  against  his  arm. 

"  Oh,  but  we  must,  Aldo.  I  want  to  write  my  book.  It 
is  to  be  a  great  book." 

Aldo  nodded,  and  went  on  playing. 

"And  you,  Aldo.  You  cannot  pass  your  life  saying 
that  you  adore  me." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  can,"  said  Aldo. 


116  THE  DEVOURERS 

Nancy  laughed  softly  and  kissed  his  sleeve.  Then 
suddenly  a  strange  feeling  came  over  her  —  a  feeling  of 
loneliness  and  fear.  She  felt  as  if  she  were  alone  in  the 
world,  and  small  and  helpless,  with  no  one  to  take  care 
of  her.  She  felt  as  if  Aldo  were  younger  and  weaker 
and  more  helpless  than  she.  And  the  terror  of  the 
Infinite  fell  upon  her  soul.  Aldo  was  singing  softly, 
meltingly,  with  his  head  bent  forward  and  his  dark  hair 
falling  over  his  face.  Suddenly  Nancy  thought  that  it 
would  be  good  to  be  safely  locked  in  a  large  light  room 
with  nothing  but  books  and  an  inkstand,  and  someone 
walking  up  and  down  outside  with  a  gun. 

"  The  wall ! "  she  said  to  herself  as  the  Englishman's 
light  eyes  and  stalwart  figure  came  before  her  mind. 
Then  she  said:  "Work  shall  be  my  wall."  And  she 
went  to  her  room  and  unpacked  her  ivory  pen. 

XIX 

FOUR  months  before  the  year  of  Carlo's  bounty  was  up, 
Aldo  made  up  his  mind  that  he  must  hustle  after  all. 
They  had  settled  in  Milan ;  then  nothing  had  happened. 
Carlo  would  never  change  his  mind.  Valeria  had  shown 
him  her  banking  account,  and  proved  to  him  that  there 
was  nothing  Nancy  could  have  beyond  her  skimpy  forty 
thousand  francs  ;  Lady  Sainsborough,  the  elderly  English 
person  in  Naples  who  had  taken  such  a  fancy  to  him,  had 
not  answered  his  last  two  letters,  and  had  probably 
altered  her  will ;  so  there  was  nothing  to  do  or  to  hope 
for.  He  must  hustle. 

He  did  so.  He  wrote  a  third  letter  to  Lady  Sains- 
borough. Then  he  decided  to  ask  Carlo  to  make  room 
for  him  in  his  silk  mills,  which  Carlo  refused  to  do. 


THE   DEVOURERS  117 

Then  he  looked  up  Nancy's  publishers,  and  asked  them 
if  they  would  advance  a  substantial  sum  on  the  un- 
written book,  which  they  also  refused  to  do.  So  having 
done  all  he  could,  he  decided  not  to  hustle  any  more,  but 
to  let  events  take  their  course. 

Nancy  did  not  help  him  at  all.  She  was  selfishly 
engrossed  in  her  book,  and  sat  in  her  room  all  day,  with 
hair  pinned  tightly  back  and  wild  and  lucent  eyes. 
Whenever  he  came  into  the  room  she  put  up  her  hand 
without  turning  round  —  a  gesture  he  could  not  bear  — 
and  went  on  with  her  writing.  If  he  disregarded  the  ges- 
ture, she  looked  up  at  him  with  those  wild,  light  eyes,  and 
he  felt  hurried,  and  forgot  what  he  wanted  to  say.  So  he 
muddled  along  with  her  forty  thousand  francs,  and  read 
the  papers,  played  the  piano,  and  went  out  to  the  Gaffe 
Biffi  every  evening  until  it  was  time  to  go  to  the  Patriot- 
tica  for  a  game  of  billiards. 

There  he  frequently  saw  Nino  sitting  glumly  with  the 
corners  of  his  mouth  turned  down ;  and  they  turned 
down  further  when  Aldo  came  in,  so  that  Aldo  positively 
hated  the  sight  of  him.  Besides,  Carlo,  who  had  refused 
to  do  anything  for  Aldo,  had  actually  taken  Nino  into 
partnership  ;  and,  just  to  irritate  and  show  off,  Nino  was 
working  vulgarly,  like  a  nigger,  twelve  or  fourteen  hours 
a  day.  The  gratified  Carlo  was  to  be  seen  with  Nino  in 
the  evenings  walking  through  the  Galleria  arm-in-arm 
with  him  as  if  they  were  brothers,  with  that  absurd  Zio 
Giacomo  trotting  alongside,  grinning  like  an  old  hen, 
while  he,  Aldo,  Carlo's  own  brother,  had  to  mooch  about 
alone,  smoking  cheap  cigarettes,  or  else  to  run  alongside 
of  Giacomo  like  an  outsider,  and  listen  for  the  thousandth 
time  to  the  recital  of  the  prodigal  Nino's  reform  and  re- 
habilitation. 


118  THE  DEVOURERS 

He  went  to  Clarissa  and  complained ;  but  she  was  un- 
sympathetic. She  rubbed  her  left-hand  nails  against 
her  right-hand  palm  and  looked  out  of  the  window.  He 
had  expected  her  to  pass  a  white,  jewelled  hand  lightly 
over  his  bowed  head  and  say,  "  Povero  bello  !  Poor 
beauteous  one ! "  as  she  had  sometimes  done  a  year  or  so 
ago ;  but  when  he  bowed  his  head  she  continued  rubbing 
the  nails  of  her  left  hand  against  her  right-hand  palm 
and  looking  out  of  the  window. 

He  felt  that  a  great  deal  depended  upon  her  friendship, 
and  it  was  almost  out  of  a  sense  of  duty  to  Nancy  that 
he  grasped  her  hand  and  kissed  it  in  his  best  and  softest 
manner.  "Oh,  don't  be  a  snail,  Aldo,"  said  Clarissa, 
taking  her  hand  away.  Then  she  looked  down  at 
him  and  shook  her  head:  "I  am  thankful  I  married 
Carlo." 

This  was  untrue,  of  course,  said  Aldo  to  himself ;  but, 
added  to  the  other  things,  it  rankled.  When  he  left  her 
he  understood  that  Clarissa  considered  him  as  much 
Nancy's  property  as  the  pair  of  antique  silver  candle- 
sticks she  had  given  to  Nancy  for  a  wedding-present,  and 
that  never  would  she  take  them  back  or  light  the  candles 
in  them  again. 

Nancy  had  written  one-third  of  The  Book.  It  was  a 
great  book  —  a  book  the  world  would  speak  of.  Like  the 
portent  of  Jeanne  of  Orleans,  a  vision  had  fallen  upon 
her  young,  white  heart  and  set  it  aflame.  She  felt  genius 
like  an  eagle  beating  great  wings  against  her  temples. 
Inspiration,  nebulous  and  wan,  stretched  thin  arms  to 
her,  and  young  ideas  went  shouting  through  her  brain. 
Then  the  phrase,  like  a  black-and-white  flower,  rolled 
back  its  thundering  petals,  and  the  masterpiece  was  born. 


THE  DEVOURERS  119 

XX 

ALDO  was  not  allowed  to  play  the  piano  any  more,  be- 
cause it  disturbed  Nancy's  thoughts.  He  also  stayed  at 
home  to  see  anyone  who  called,  so  that  Nancy  should 
not  be  interrupted.  He  himself  brought  her  meals  into 
her  room  when  she  did  not  wish  to  break  her  train  of 
thought  by  going  to  table,  and  when  the  loud-footed, 
cheerful  servant  annoyed  and  distracted  her. 

A  reverential  hush  was  on  the  house. 

The  Rome  publisher,  Servetti,  heard  of  The  Book,  and 
came  to  Milan  to  ask  if  he  could  have  it.  Zardo,  the 
publisher  of  the  "  Cycle  of  Lyrics,"  who  had  omitted  to 
pay  for  the  last  two  editions  of  that  distinguished  and 
fortunate  volume,  sent,  unasked,  an  unverisimilarly  large 
cheque;  and  suggested  for  her  new  work  a  special 
Edition  de  luxe.  Nancy  replied  to  no  one,  heeded  no  one. 
The  Book  held  her  soul. 

It  was  a  winter  evening,  and  the  lamps  were  lit,  when 
Nancy  wrote  at  the  summit  of  a  candid  page, 
"Chapter  XVII."  She  wrote  the  heading  carefully, 
reverentially,  painting  over  the  Roman  numbers  with 
loving  pen.  This  was  the  culminating  chapter  of  The 
Book.  It  had  been  worked  up  to  in  steep  and  audacious 
ascent,  and  after  it  and  from  it  the  story  would  flow 
down  in  rushing,  inevitable  stream  to  its  portentous  close. 
But  this  chapter  was  the  climax  and  the  crown. 

Nancy  passed  a  quick  hand  across  her  forehead  and 
pushed  back  her  ruffled  hair.  Then  she  looked  across  at 
Aldo.  He  was  sitting  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  table 
with  some  sheets  of  music-paper  before  him.  The  shine 
of  the  lamp  fell  blandly  on  his  narrow  head.  He  looked 
dejected  and  dull. 


120  THE   DEVOURERS 

"  What  is  it,  Aldo  ? "  she  asked,  stretching  her  hand 
affectionately  across  the  table  to  him.  In  the  joy  and 
the  overflowing  ease  of  inspiration  she  felt  kind  and  com- 
passionate. 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  sighed  Aldo.  "  I  was  thinking  of 
writing  a  symphony ;  but  I  cannot  do  anything  without 
trying  it  at  the  piano.  And  that  disturbs  you.  Never 
mind  !  Don't  worry  about  me." 

"  Oh,  but  I  do  worry,"  said  Nancy,  getting  up  and 
going  round  to  his  side.  She  bent  over  him  with  her 
arm  on  his  shoulder.  Before  him  on  the  sheet  was  half  a 
line  of  breves  and  semibreves,  which  Nancy  remembered 
from  her  childhood  as  little  men  getting  over  stiles. 

"  You  know,"  said  Aldo,  with  his  pen  going  over  and 
over  the  face  of  one  of  the  little  men  and  making  it  blacker 
and  larger  than  the  others,  "  Ricordi  is  publishing  those 
songs  of  mine;  but  I  believe  it  is  only  because  they  have 
your  words.  So  I  thought  I  would  try  a  symphony  which 
will  be  all  my  own.  But  I  ought  to  be  able  to  try  it  at 
the  piano." 

"  I  know,  dear,"  said  Nancy,  smoothing  his  soft,  thick 
hair.  "  I  know  I  am  a  horrid,  selfish  thing,  upsetting 
everything  and  everybody.  But  never  mind ! "  And 
she  glanced  across  to  the  large  "  Chapter  XVII  "  at  the 
top  of  the  fair  sheet,  and  the  wet  ink  of  the  "  XVII " 
glistened  and  beckoned  to  her  upside  down  at  the  other 
side  of  the  table.  "  Wait  till  I  have  finished  my  book. 
Then  you  shall  do  all  you  want ;  and  we  shall  go  and  pass 
blue  days  in  the  country  and  be  as  happy  as  sandboys, 
and  "  —  she  added  for  him  —  "  as  rich  as  Croesus." 

He  raised  his  dark  eyes  to  her,  and  she  thought  that 
he  looked  like  Murillo's  Saint  Sebastian. 

"Your  writing  has  swallowed  up  all  your  love  for  me," 
he  said. 


THE  DEVOURERS  121 

'•'Oh  no  !  "  said  Nancy,  and  she  caressed  the  beautiful 
brow.  "It  is  you,  your  presence,  your  beauty,  that 
inspires  me  and  helps  me  to  write." 

Aldo  sighed.  "I  suppose  I  [am  a  nonentity.  And  I 
must  be  grateful  if  the  fact  of  my  having  a  straight  nose 
has  helped  you  to  write  your  book." 

Nancy  felt  conscience-stricken.  "Don't  be  bitter, 
dear  heart,"  she  said.  "  I  must  be  selfish !  If  I  do  not 
sit  there  and  write,  I  feel  as  if  I  had  a  maniac  shut  up 
in  my  brain,  beating  and  shrieking  to  get  out.  And  oh, 
Aldo,  when  I  do  write,  coolly  and  quickly  and  smoothly, 
I  feel  like  a  mountain-spring  gushing  out  my  life  in  glad, 
scintillant  waters." 

Aldo  drew  her  face  down  and  kissed  her.  "  Nothing 
shall  interfere  with  your  book,"  he  said. 

"  No,  nothing,"  said  Nancy  —  "  nothing !  " 

As  she  spoke  a  strange,  quivering  sensation  passed 
over  her,  a  quick  throb  shook  her  heart,  and  the  roots  of 
her  hair  prickled.  Then  it  was  past  and  gone.  She 
stepped  back  to  her  place  at  the  table  and  stood  looking 
down  at  Chapter  XVII.  The  wet  ink  still  glistened  on  it. 
She  was  waiting.  .  .  .  She  knew  she  was  waiting  for  that 
strange  throb  to  clutch  at  her  heart  again.  She  looked 
across  at  Aldo.  He  was  thoughtfully  painting  the  face 
of  another  semibreve  and  making  it  large  and  black. 
She  sat  down  and  dipped  the  ivory  pen  into  the  gaping 
mouth  of  the  inkstand. 

Ah,  again!  the  throb!  the  throb!  like  a  soft  hand 
striking  at  her  heart.  And  now  a  nutter  as  of  an  im- 
prisoned bird ! 

"  Aldo !  Aldo !  "  she  cried,  falling  forward  with  her  face 
hidden  on  her  arm.  And  her  waving  hair  trailed  over 
Chapter  XVII,  and  blurred  the  waiting  page. 


122  THE  DEVOUKERS 

XXI 

NANCY  stirred,  sighed,  and  awoke. 

In  the  room  adjoining,  Valeria  was  sobbing  in  Zio 
Giacomo's  arms,  and  Aunt  Carlotta  was  kissing  Adele, 
and  Aldo  was  shaking  hands  with  everybody. 

Nancy  could  hear  the  whispering  voices  through  the 
half-open  door,  and  they  pleased  her.  Then  another 
sound  fell  on  her  ear,  like  the  ticking  of  a  slow  clock  — 
click,  click,  a  gentle,  peaceful,  regular  noise  that  soothed 
her.  She  turned  her  head  and  looked.  It  was  the  cradle. 
The  Sister  sat  near  it,  dozing,  with  one  elbow  on  the  back 
of  the  chair  and  her  hand  supporting  her  head ;  the  other 
hand  was  on  the  edge  of  the  cradle.  With  gentle 
mechanical  gesture,  in  her  half  sleep,  she  rocked  it  to  and 
fro.  Nancy  smiled  to  herself,  and  the  gentle  clicking 
noise  lulled  her  near  to  sleep  again. 

She  felt  utterly  at  peace  — utterly  happy.  The  waiting 
was  over ;  the  fear  was  over.  Life  opened  wider  portals 
over  wider,  shining  lands.  All  longings  were  stilled ;  all 
empty  places  filled.  Then  with  a  soft  tremor  of  joy  she 
remembered  her  book.  It  was  waiting  for  her  where 
she  had  left  it  that  evening  when  futurity  had  pulsed 
within  her  heart.  The  masterpiece  that  was  to  live 
called  softly  and  the  folded  wings  of  the  eagle  stirred. 

In  the  gently-rocking  twilight  of  the  cradle  the  baby 
opened  its  eyes  and  said :  "  I  am  hungry." 


BOOK  II 


WHEN  eighteen  thousand  of  the  forty  thousand  francs 
were  gone,  Aldo  said:  "I  must  do  something."  And 
when  eighteen  thousand  of  the  forty  thousand  francs 
were  left,  he  said :  "  Something  must  be  done."  Carlo 
had  washed  his  hands  of  him ;  all  that  Lady  Sainsborough 
had  sent  him  was  her  portrait,  one  "  taken  on  the  lawn 
with  Fido,"  and  another,  "  starting  for  my  morning  ride 
with  Baron  Cucciniello."  "  Flighty  old  lunatic  ! "  said 
Aldo,  throwing  the  pictures  into  the  fire  and  digging  at 
them  with  the  poker.  Then  he  called  Nancy  and  told 
her  how  matters  stood. 

Nancy  did  not  seem  to  realize  that  it  made  much 
difference.  She  crawled  under  the  table  and  hid  behind 
the  green  table-cloth.  "  Peek-a-boo ! "  The  baby  crawled 
after  her  and  pulled  her  hair. 

"  Well,  what  are  we  going  to  do  ?  "  said  Aldo. 

"  As  soon  as  the  baby  can  walk,"  replied  Nancy,  look- 
ing up  at  him  from  under  the  table,  "  I  shall  start  my 
work  again.  As  long  as  it  is  such  a  teeny,  weeny,  help- 
less lamb  "  —  and  she  kissed  the  small,  soft  head  on  which 
the  hair  grew  in  yellow  tufts  here  and  there  —  "  its  mother 
is  not  going  to  be  such  a  horrid  (kiss),  naughty  (kiss), 
ugly  (kiss)  tigress  (kiss,  kiss)  as  to  leave  a  poor  little 
forlorn  (kiss) " 

Aldo  left  the  room,  and  nobody  under  the  table  noticed 
that  he  had  gone. 

123 


124  THE  DEVOUKERS 

He  went  to  Zio  Giacomo,  who  for  Nancy's  sake  took 
him  into  his  office  to  make  architectural  drawings  and 
plans  at  a  salary  of  two  hundred  francs  a  month. 

At  the  end  of  the  third  week  Aldo  looked  round  the 
room  where  four  other  men  were  drawing  plans,  and 
observed  them  meditatively.  Two  were  sallow  and  thin, 
one  was  sallow  and  fat,  and  one  was  red  and  fat.  The 
sallow,  thin  ones  had  little  hair,  the  sallow,  fat  one  had  no 
hair ;  the  red,  fat  one  wore  glasses.  They  had  all  been 
here  drawing  plans  for  four,  six,  and  twelve  years  at 
salaries  between  two  hundred  and  six  hundred  and  fifty 
francs  a  month. 

Aldo  made  a  calculation  on  his  blotting-paper.  Say  he 
stayed  five  years.  He  would  get  200  francs  a  month  for 
the  first  two  years  =  4,800  francs ;  300,  or  say  350,  for 
the  next  two  years  =  8,400  francs ;  400,  or  perhaps  450, 
for  the  following  year  =  5,400  francs.  Total :  18,600 
francs. 

Eighteen  thousand  six  hundred  francs !  So  that,  sup- 
posing he  spent  nothing,  but  went  on  living  on  what  re- 
mained of  Nancy's  dot  for  five  years  (which  was  out  of  the 
question,  of  course,  as  it  was  not  enotigh),  at  the  end  of 
five  years  he  would  find  himself  exactly  where  he  was 
to-day,  and  just  five  years  older.  Probably  thin  and 
sallow ;  or  fat  and  sallow ;  or  red  and  fat,  with  glasses. 
It  was  preposterous.  It  was  out  of  the  question.  Here 
he  was  to-day,  with  the  eighteen  thousand  francs  and  the 
five  years  still  before  him. 

He  took  his  hat  and  walked  out  of  the  office. 

He  wrote  to  Zio  Giacomo,  who  said  he  was  an  addle- 
pated  and  clot-headed  imbecile.  Aldo  explained  the 
situation  mathematically  to  Valeria  and  Nancy,  who 
looked  vague,  and  said  that  it  seemed  true. 


THE  DEVOUREKS  125 

"Eighteen  thousand  francs,"  said  Aldo,  "cleverly 
used,  might  set  us  on  our  feet.  Now,  what  shall  we  do 
with  it?"  . 

Valeria  folded  gentle  hands ;  and  Nancy  said  :  "  Peek-/"* 
a-boo."     So  the  baby,  at  Aide's  request,  was  sent  out 
for  a  walk  with  the   sour-faced  thing  chosen  by  Aunt 
Carlotta  to  be  its  nurse. 

"  You  could  go  into  partnership  with  someone,"  said 
Nancy  sweetly,  with  her  head  on  one  side,  to  show  that 
she  took  an  interest. 

Valeria  nodded,  and  said :  "  Mines  are  a  good  thing." 

Aldo  was  silent.  "Eighteen  thousand  francs,"  he 
said  thoughtfully.  "It  is  not  much."  Then  he  said: 
"Of  course,  one  could  buy  a  shop." 

In  his  deep,  dreaming  eyes  passed  the  vision  of  his 
grandfather's  nice  little  negozio  in  the  Strada  Carac- 
ciolo  at  Naples,  with  its  strings  of  coral  hanging  row 
on  row ;  tortoise- she  11  combs  and  brushes  with  silver 
initials ;  brooches  of  lava  and  of  mosaic,  that  were  sold 
for  a  franc  each ;  shells  of  polished  mother-of-pearl ; 
pictures  of  Vesuvius  by  night,  reproduced  on  convex 
glass ;  and  booklets  of  photographs,  that  English  people 
would  always  come  to  look  at.  He  could  see  his  grand- 
father now,  stepping  in  front  of  the  counter  with  a 
booklet  of  views  in  his  hand,  and  shaking  it  out  suddenly, 
br-r-r  ...  in  front  of  his  English  .customers.  Also  he 
could  see  his  grandfather  tying  up  neat  little  parcels, 
giving  change,  bowing  and  smiling  with  still  handsome 
eye  and  gleaming  smile,  and  accompanying  people  to 
the  door,  waving  an  obsequious  and  yet  benevolent 
hand.  Aldo  would  have  liked  a  little  shop  in  Naples, 
and  easy-going,  trustful  English  customers  who  would 
not  haggle  and  bargain,  but  pass  friendly  remarks 


126  THE  DEVOURERS 

about  the  weather,  and  pay  their  good  money.  Ah, 
the  good  little  money  coming  in  that  one  can  count 
every  evening,  and  put  away,  and  look  at,  and  count 
again;  not  this  vague,  distant  "salary,"  that  one  does 
not  see,  or  count,  or  have,  with  no  surprises  and  no 
possibilities. 

But  Valeria  was  speaking.  "  A  shop !  My  dear 
Aldo  !  What  a  dreadful  idea !  How  can  you  say  such 
a  thing?" 

And  Nancy,  who  thought  he  was  joking,  said,  with 
all  her  dimples  alight :  "  That's  right,  Aldo.  We  shall 
have  a  toy-shop  —  five  hundred  rattles  for  the  baby, 
eight  hundred  rubber  dolls  for  the  baby,  ten  thousand 
woolly  sheep  and  cows  that  squeak  when  you  squeeze 
them.  Let  us  have  a  toy-shop,  there's  a  dear  boy." 
She  jumped  up  and  kissed  his  straight,  narrow  parting 
on  the  top  of  his  shining  black  head.  "  And  if  all  the 
toys  are  broken  by  the  baby,  and  have  the  paint  licked 
off,  and  the  woolliness  pulled  out,"  she  added,  with  her 
cheek  against  his,  "  I  shall  give  away  an  autograph 
poem  with  each  of  the  damaged  beasts,  and  charge 
two  francs  extra." 

The  allusion  to  the  autograph  poem  made  Aldo  realize 
that  it  was  impossible  that  his  wife,  the  celebrated 
author,  could  keep  a  shop,  so  he  sighed,  and  said: 
"  I  have  a  good  mind  to  try  Monte  Carlo.  I  have  never 
been  there,  but  my  friend  Delmonte  once  gave  me  a 
system." 

"Why  doesn't  he  play  it  himself?"  said  Nancy. 
"  He  looks  as  if  he  needed  it." 

"He  has  played  it,"  said  Aldo;  "but  he  is  a  man 
lacking  the  strength  of  character  that  one  needs  to  play 
a  system.  A  system  is  a  thing  one  has  to  stick  to  and 


THE   DEVOURERS  127 

go  through  with,  no  matter  how  one  may  be  tempted 
to  do  something  else.  This  is  really  a  rather  wonderful 
system." 

And  Aldo  took  out  a  pencil  and  a  note-book,  and 
showed  the  system  to  Valeria  and  Nancy. 

"  You  see,  N.  is  black  and  R.  is  red."  Then  he  made 
rows  of  little  dots  irregularly  under  each  initial.  "  You 
see,  I  win  on  all  this." 

"  Do  you  ?  "  said  Nancy  and  Valeria,  bending  over  the 
table  with  heads  close  together. 

"  Yes ;  I  win  on  the  intermittences." 

"What  are  they?" 

"  Oh,  never  mind  what  they  are,"  said  Aldo.  "  And  I 
win  on  all  the  twos,  and  the  threes,  and  the  fives." 

"And  the  fours,"  said  Nancy,  who  did  not  understand 
what  he  was  saying,  but  wanted  to  show  an  interest. 

"  No,  I  don't  win  on  the  fours,"  said  Aldo.  "  I  lose  on 
the  fours.  But  I  win  on  the  fives  and  sixes,  and  every- 
thing else.  And,  of  course,  fours  come  seldom." 

"  Of  course,"  echoed  Nancy  and  Valeria,  looking 
vacantly  at  the  little  dots  under  the  N.  and  the  R. 

"  I  could  make  the  game  cheaper,"  said  Aldo  thought- 
fully, "  by  waiting,  and  letting  the  intermittences  pass, 
and  only  starting  my  play  on  the  twos." 

"  Perhaps  that  would  be  a  good  plan,"  said  Nancy, 
with  vacant  eyes. 

"  But,"  said  Valeria,  "  I  thought  you  won  on  the  inter- 
mittences." 

"  I  do,"  said  Aldo,  frowning,  "  if  they  are  intermit- 
tences. But  supposing  they  are  fours  ?  " 

This  closed  the  door  on  all  comprehension  so  far  as 
Nancy  was  concerned.  But  Valeria,  who  had  been  to 
Monte  Carlo  for  four  days  on  her  wedding-tour,  said 


128  THE   DEVOURERS 

decisively  :  "  Then  I  think  I  should  wait  and  see.  If 
they  are  fours,  then  play  only  on  the  fives  and  sixes." 

"  There  is  something  in  that,"  said  Aldo,  rubbing 
his  chin.  "But  I  must  try  it.  Now  you  just  say 
'black'  or  'red'  at  random,  as  it  comes  into  your 
head." 

Nancy  and  Valeria  said  "  black  "  and  "  red "  at  ran- 
dom, and  Aldo  staked  imaginary  five-franc  pieces,  and 
doubled  them,  and  played  the  system.  After  about 
fifteen  minutes  he  had  won  nearly  two  thousand  francs. 

So  it  was  decided  that  he  should  quietly  go  to  Monte 
Carlo  and  try  the  system,  starting  as  soon  as  possible. 

"  Do  not  speak  about  it  to  anyone,"  he  said.  "  Del- 
monte  made  a  special  point  of  that.  If  too  many  people 
knew  of  a  thing  like  this,  it  would  spoil  everything." 

So  no  one  was  told,  but  they  set  about  making  prepa- 
rations for  Aldo's  departure. 

"  I  shall  not  stay  more  than  a  month  at  a  time,"  said 
Aldo.  "  One  must  be  careful  not  to  arouse  suspicions 
that  one  is  playing  a  winning  game." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Valeria. 

And  Nancy  said :  "  Is  it  not  rather  mean  to  go  there 
when  you  know  that  you  must  win  ?  " 

Aldo  explained  that  the  administration  was  not  a 
person,  and  added  that  the  few  thousand  francs  that  he 
needed  every  year  would  never  be  missed  by  such  a 
wealthy  company. 

Then  Nancy  said :  "  I  know  Monte  Carlo  is  a  dreadful 
place.  Full  of  horrid  women.  I  hope  —  oh  dear !  " 

Aldo  kissed  her  troubled  brow.  "  Dear  little  girl,  I 
am  going  there  to  make  money,  and  nothing  else  will  in- 
terest me." 

"I  know  that,"  said  Nancy,  with  a  little  laugh  and 


THE  DEVOURERS  129 

a  little  sigh.  "  But  the  nasty  creatures  are  sure  to  look 
at  you." 

"  That  cannot  be  helped,"  said  Aldo,  raising  superior 
eyebrows. 

Nancy  kissed  him  and  laughed.  "Such  a  funny 
boy ! "  she  said.  "  I  believe  your  Closed  Garden,  your 
hortus  conclitsus,  is  nothing  but  a  potato  patch !  But 
I  like  to  sit  in  it  all  the  same." 


n 

•«*» 

MAY  brought  the  baby  a  tooth.  June  brought  it  another 
tooth  and  a  golden  shine  for  its  hair.  August  brought 
it  a  word  or  two ;  September  stood  it,  upright  and  ex- 
ultant, with  its  back  to  the  wall;  and  October  sent  it 
tottering  and  trilling  into  its  mother's  arms. 

Its  names  were  Lilien  Astrid  Rosalynd  Anne-Marie. 

"  Now  baby  can  walk,"  said  Valeria  to  her  daughter, 
"  you  ought  to  take  up  your  work  again." 

"  Indeed  I  must,"  said  Nancy,  lifting  the  baby  to  her 
lap.  "Have  you  seen  her  bracelets?"  And  she  held 
the  chubby  wrist  out  to  Valeria,  showing  three  little 
lines  dinting  the  tender  flesh.  "Three  little  bracelets 
for  luck."  And  Nancy  kissed  the  small,  fat  wrist,  and 
bit  it  softly. 

"Where  has  your  manuscript  been  put?"  said 
Valeria. 

"Oh,  somewhere  upstairs,"  said  Nancy,  pretending 
to  eat  the  baby's  arm.  "  Good,  good !  Veddy  nice ! 
Mother,  this  baby  tastes  of  grass,  and  cowslips,  and 
violets.  Taste ! "  And  she  held  the  baby's  arm  out 
to  Valeria. 

"Tace,"  said  the  baby.     So  the  grandmother  tasted 


130  THE  DEVOUKERS 

and  found  it  very  nice.  Then  she  had  to  taste  the  other 
arm,  and  then  a  small  piece  of  cheek.  Then  the  baby 
stuck  out  her  foot  in  its  white  leather  shoe,  but  grand- 
mamma would  not  taste  it,  and  called  it  nasty-nasty. 
And  the  other  foot  was  held  up  and  called  nasty-nasty. 
But  the  baby  said  "  Tace  ! "  and  the  corners  of  her  mouth 
drooped.  So  grandmamma  tasted  the  shoe  and  found 
it  very  nice,  and  then  the  other  shoe,  and  it  was  very  nice. 
And  then  Nancy  had  to  taste  everything  all  over  again. 

Thus  the  days  passed  busily,  bringing  much  to  do. 

Aldo  wrote  that  "the  system"  was  incomparable. 
His  only  fear  was  that  the  administration  might  notice  it. 
He  now  played  with  double  stakes.  A  few  days  later 
he  wrote  again.  There  was  a  flaw  in  the  system.  But 
never  mind.  He  had  found  another  one,  a  much  better 
one.  He  had  bought  it  for  a  hundred  francs  from  a  man 
who  had  been  shut  out  of  the  Casino  because  the  adminis- 
tration was  afraid  of  his  system.  Of  course,  he  had 
promised  to  give  the  man  a  handsome  present  before 
he  left.  He  had  won  eight  hundred  francs  in  ten  minutes 
with  the  new  system  last  night.  Of  course,  he  had  to  be 
very  careful,  because  the  flaw  of  the  other  system  had 
been  disastrous. 

A  third  letter  came.  After  winning  steadily  for  four 
days,  he  had  had  the  most  incredible  guigne :  a  run  of 
twenty-four  on  black  when  he  was  doubling  on  red. 
But  he  would  stick  to  the  system;  it  was  the  only  way. 
People  that  pottered  round  and  skipped  about  from  one 
thing  to  another  were  bound  to  lose.  Love  to  all. 

Then  came  a  postcard.  "Have  discovered  that  all 
previous '  s's '  were  wrong.  Have  made  friends  with  a 
'cr,'  who  will  put  things  all  right  again." 

Valeria  and  Nancy  puzzled  over  the  "  cr."     The  "  s's  " 


THE   DEVOUKERS  131 

of  course  meant  "  systems,"  but  what  could  a  "  cr  "  be  ? 
Valeria  felt  anxious,  and  sent  a  messenger  for  Nino. 
Nino  left  Carlo's  office  at  once,  and  hurried  to  Via  Senato, 
where,  since  Aldo's  departure,  Valeria  was  staying  with 
Nancy  and  the  baby.  All  three  were  on  the  balcony, 
and  waved  hands  to  him  as  he  crossed  the  Ponte  Sant' 
Andrea,  and  hurried  across  the  Boschetti  to  No.  12. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Valeria  ?  "  and  he  kissed  her  cheek. 
"  How  do  you  do,  Nancy  ?  "  and  he  kissed  her  hand. 
"  How  do  you  do,  Anne-Marie  ?  "  and  he  kissed  the  baby 
on  the  top  of  the  head.  "  What  is  the  matter  ?  What 
has  Aldo  done  ?  " 

"  Oh ! "  exclaimed  Nancy.  "  How  could  you  guess 
that  it  was  about  Aldo  ?  " 

Nino  smiled. 

Valeria  held  the  postcard  out  for  him  to  see,  and 
covering  everything  but  the  last  line,  said  :  "  What  does 
'  cr '  mean  ?  " 

Nino  looked,  and  said :  "  Where  does  he  write  from  ?  " 

Nancy  and  Valeria  exchanged  glances,  and  decided 
that  they  could  trust  Nino.  He  would  not  use  the 
system  or  give  it  to  other  people.  Besides,  the  system 
had  a  flaw. 

"  Monte  Carlo,"  they  said  in  unison. 

Nino  made  a  mouth  as  if  to  whistle,  and  did  not 
whistle.  The  baby  sitting  on  the  rug  watched  him 
and  wished  he  would  do  it  again. 

"  I  suppose  '  cr '  is  croupier,"  said  Nino.  Then  there 
was  silence.  After  a  while  Nino  said :  "  How  much  did 
he  take  with  him  ?  " 

"  Everything,"  said  Valeria. 

Then  Nino  made  the  mouth  again,  and  the  baby  was 
pleased. 


132  THE  DEVOURERS 

"  You  had  better  go  and  fetch  him.  Quick ! "  said 
Nino,  looking  at  Nancy. 

"  Oh !  "  gasped  Nancy,  "  must  I  ?     Is  it  bad  ?  " 

"Quite  bad,"  said  Nino.  "He  has  probably  lost  half 
of  your  forty  thousand  francs  already." 

"  He  only  had  eighteen,"  said  Nancy,  with  a  twinkle 
in  her  grey  eye. 

"  That's  better,"  said  Nino.  "  But  go  and  fetch  him 
all  the  same." 

Nancy  was  greatly  excited  and  rather  pleased.  The 
baby  should  see  the  Mediterranean.  Valeria,  "grand- 
mamma," must  come  too,  of  course. 

"No,  dear,"  said  Valeria,  "I  cannot.  I  have 
promised  Aunt  Carlotta  to  help  her  with  her  reception 
to-morrow  evening.  But  I  will  take  you  part  of  the 
way  —  as  far  as  Alessandria  or  Genoa." 

"But  I  am  sure  Nino  could  come,"  said  Nancy, 
looking  up  at  him  interrogatively. 

"  Yes,"  said  Nino,  and  then  quickly  said  no,  he  was 
sorry,  he  could  not  possibly  leave  Carlo's  office.  Besides, 
she  would  manage  Aldo  better  without  him. 

The  next  morning  he  went  to  the  station  to  see  them  off. 
Valeria  had  Anne-Marie  in  her  arms,  and  Nancy  walked 
beside  them,  looking  like  the  baby's  elder  sister.  They 
had  no  luggage  but  a  small  valise,  for  Valeria  was  return- 
ing to  Milan  in  the  afternoon,  and  Nancy  was  sure  that 
she  would  come  back  with  Aldo  the  day  after  to-morrow. 

Nino  found  comfortable  places  for  them,  and  then 
stepped  down  and  stood  in  front  of  the  window,  looking 
up  with  that  vacant  half-smile  that  everyone  has  who, 
having  said  good-bye,  stands  waiting  for  the  train  to 
start.  Nancy  was  looking  down  at  him  with  sweet 
eyes.  There  was  something  blue  in  her  hat  that  made 


THE   DEVOURERS  133 

her  eyes  look  bluer.  Behind  her  the  baby,  held  up  by 
Valeria,  was  waving  a  short  arm  up  and  down  as  the 
spirit  of  Valeria's  hand  moved  it.  The  bell  rang,  the 
whistle  blew,  and  as  the  train  passed  him  slowly,  Nino 
suddenly  jumped  on  to  the  step  at  the  end  of  the 
carriage,  turned  the  stiff  handle,  and  went  in.  "  I  will 
come  as  far  as  Valeria  does,"  he  said.  He  was  greeted 
with  delight,  but  the  baby  continued  irrelevantly  to 
wave  good-bye  to  him  for  a  long  time.  They  passed 
Alessandria  and  Genoa,  and  went  on  to  Savona.  The 
baby  looked  at  the  Mediterranean,  and  Nancy  looked  at 
the  baby,  and  Nino  looked  at  Nancy,  and  Valeria 
looked  at  them  all,  and  loved  them  all  with  an  aching 
love.  At  Savona  Valeria  and  Nino  got  out. 


They  had  half  an  hour  to  wait  for  the  return  train  that 
would  take  them  back  to  Milan. 

They  stood  on  the  platform  in  front  of  the  carriage 
window,  and  looked  up  at  Nancy  with  that  vacant  half- 
smile  that  people  have  when  they  have  said  good-bye.  .  .  . 
Nancy  leaned  out  of  the  window  and  looked  down  tenderly 
at  her  mother's  upturned  face,  and  then  at  Nino,  and 
then  at  her  mother  again.  The  baby  stood  on  the  seat 
beside  her,  waving  its  short  arm  up  and  down,  with 
yellow  curls  falling  over  its  eyes. 

"  In  vettura  !  "  called  the  guard. 

"We  shall  be  back  the  day  after  to-morrow," 
said  Nancy  for  the  fourth  time;  "or  perhaps  to- 
morrow." 

"Perhaps  to-mollow,"  echoed  the  baby,  who  always 
repeated  what  other  people  said.  Nino  went  close  to 
the  window,  and  put  up  his  hand  to  touch  the  baby's. 

"You  don't  know  what  'to-morrow'  means,"  he 
said.  Anne-Marie  let  him  take  her  hand.  He  felt  the 


134  THE  DEVOURERS 

small,  warm  fist  closed  in  his.  "  When  is  to-morrow, 
Anne-Marie  ?  " 

"  To-mollow  is  ...  to-mollow  is  when  I  am  to  have 
evlything,"  explained  Anne-Marie. 

"That  sounds  like  a  long  time  away,"  said  Nancy, 
laughing. 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  Valeria. 

"  Yeth,  indeed,"  echoed  the  baby. 

"  Pronti,  partenza  ?  "  said  the  guard. 

"Good-bye,  Nancy!  Good-bye,  baby!"  The  bell 
sounded  and  the  whistle  blew. 

"Good-bye,  mother  dear."  The  train  moved  slightly 
and  Nancy  waved  her  hand. 

"  Good-bye,  Nancy !  Good-bye,  baby !  Good-bye,  my 
two  darlings  ! " 

The  train  was  moving  swiftly  away. 

"Perhaps  to-morrow,"  cried  Nancy,  waving  again. 
Then  she  drew  back,  lest  a  spark  should  fly  into  the 
baby's  eyes. 

Valeria  stood  like  a  statue  looking  after  them.  "Good- 
bye, Nancy !  Good-bye,  baby ! " 

They  were  gone. 

And  to-morrow  was  a  long  time  away. 

HI 

WHEN  the  leisurely  Riviera  train  drew  into  the  station 
at  Monte  Carlo,  Nancy  looked  out  of  the  window  to  see 
Aldo,  to  whom  she  had  telegraphed.  He  was  not  there. 
A  group  of  laughing  women  in  light  gowns,  two  English- 
men with  their  hands  in  their  pockets,  and  a  German 
honeymoon-couple  were  on  the  platform.  No  one  else. 
A  handsome,  indolent  porter  helped  Nancy  and  the 


THE  DEVOUKEES  135 

baby  to  descend,  and,  taking  their  valise,  walked  out  in 
front  of  them,  and  handed  it  to  the  omnibus-driver  of  the 
Hotel  de  Paris. 

"  Non,  non,"  said  Nancy.     "  J'attends  mon  mari." 

"Ah!"  said  the  porter;  "elle  attend  son  mari." 
Then  he  and  the  omnibus-driver  grinned,  and  spat,  and 
looked  at  her. 

"  Donnez-moi  ma  valise,"  said  Nancy. 

"  Donnez-lui  sa  valise,"  said  the  porter. 

"J'vas  la  lui  donner,"  said  the  omnibus-driver, 
climbing  slowly  up  the  little  ladder,  and  taking  the 
valise  down  again. 

"Voila  la  valise."  And  he  put  it  on  the  ground. 
Nancy  told  the  porter  to  take  it.  The  omnibus-driver 
looked  astonished.  "  Quoi  ?  Et  moi  done  ?  Pas  de 
pourboire  ? "  And  the  porter  spat  and  grinned,  and 
said  to  Nancy :  "  Faut  lui  donner  son  pourboire." 

So  Nancy  gave  the  omnibus-driver  fifty  centimes, 
and  told  the  porter  to  take  the  valise  to  the  Hotel  des 
Colonies.  He  shouldered  the  small  portmanteau,  and 
stepped  briskly  and  lightly  up  the  flight  of  steps  that 
leads  to  the  Place  du  Casino.  Nancy  followed,  with 
Anne-Marie  holding  on  to  her  skirts.  An  old  woman 
sitting  with  her  basket  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  offered 
them  oranges.  Nancy  said,  "  Non,  merci,"  and  hurried 
on.  But  Anne-Marie  wanted  one.  She  was  tired  and 
hungry,  and  began  to  cry.  So  Nancy  stopped  and  bought 
an  orange.  Then  she  lifted  Anne-Marie  in  her  arms, 
and  hurried  up  the  steps  after  the  porter.  At  the  top 
of  the  winding  flight  Nancy  looked  round.  It  was  a 
light  June  evening.  Where  the  sky  was  palest  the  new 
moon  looked  like  a  little  gilt  slit  in  the  sky,  letting  the 
light  of  heaven  show  through. 


136  THE   DEVOURERS 

The  street  was  deserted.  The  porter  had  vanished. 
Anne-Marie  began  to  cry  because  she  wanted  her  orange 
peeled,  and  Nancy,  after  hurrying  forward  a  few  steps, 
stopped,  lifted  the  child  on  to  the  low  wall,  sat  down 
beside  her,  and  peeled  the  orange.  Nancy  was  con- 
vinced that  her  portmanteau  was  gone  for  ever,  but 
nothing  seemed  to  matter  much,  so  long  as  Anne-Marie 
did  not  cry.  She  looked  at  the  light  sky,  the  palm-trees, 
and  the  smooth  pearl-grey  sea.  She  wondered  where 
the  Hotel  des  Colonies  was,  and  whether  Aldo  had  not 
received  the  telegram.  The  legends  of  Monte  Carlo 
murders  and  suicides  traversed  her  mind  for  an  instant. 
Then  Anne-Marie,  who  had  never  sat  on  a  wall  eating 
oranges,  lifted  her  face,  smudged  with  tears  and  juice, 
and  said  :  "  Nice !  Nice  evelything.  I  like."  So  Nancy 
liked  too. 

They  found  the  Hotel  des  Colonies  after  many  wander- 
ings, and  there  was  the  porter  with  the  valise  waiting 
for  them.  Did  Monsieur  della  Kocca  live  here  ?  Yes. 
Had  he  received  a  telegram  ?  No ;  here  was  the  telegram 
waiting  for  monsieur.  Did  they  know  where  was 
monsieur  ? 

"  Eh !  you  will  find  him  at  the  Casino,"  said  the  stout 
proprietress. 

Nancy  asked  to  be  shown  to  her  husband's  room,  but 
as  it  turned  out  to  be  a  very  small  mansarde  at  the  top 
of  the  house,  Nancy  took  another  room,  and  there  Anne- 
Marie  went  to  bed  under  the  mosquito-netting,  and  was 
asleep  at  once.  Nancy  went  downstairs.  The  salon 
was  dark.  Madame  la  Proprie"taire  sat  in  the  garden 
with  an  old  lady  and  a  little  fat  boy. 

"  If  you  want  to  go  to  the  Casino,"  she  said,  "  I  will 
look  after  the  little  angel  upstairs ! " 


THE   DEVOUKERS  137 

But  Nancy  said :  "  Oh  no,  thank  you." 

Then  the  old  lady  said:  " Allez  done!  Allez  done! 
Vous  savez  bien  les  hommes !  .  .  .  £a  pourrait  ne  pas 
rentrer."  Then  she  added :  "  I  have  been  here  twelve 
years.  This,  my  little  grandson,  was  born  here.  You 
can  go,  tranquillement.  The  petit  ange  will  be  all  right." 

Nancy  went  upstairs  for  her  hat.  Anne-Marie  was 
asleep  and  never  stirred.  So  Nancy  went  through  the 
little  garden  again  with  hesitant  feet,  and  turned  her 
face  to  the  Casino.  The  streets  were  almost  empty. 
She  was  in  her  dark  travelling-dress,  and  nobody 
noticed  her.  As  she  passed  the  Hotel  de  Paris  she  saw 
the  people  dining  at  the  tables  with  the  little  red  lights 
lit.  In  the  square  round  the  flower-beds  other  people 
sat  in  twos  and  threes ;  and  over  the  way,  in  the  Cafe 
de  Paris,  the  Tziganes  in  red  coats  were  playing  "  Sous 
la  Feuillee." 

Nancy  suddenly  felt  frightened  and  sad.  What  was 
she  doing  here,  all  alone,  at  night  in  this  unknown  place, 
and  little  Anne-Marie  sleeping  in  that  large  bed  all 
alone  in  a  strange  hotel  ?  She  felt  as  if  she  were  in  a 
dream,  and  hurried  on,  dizzy  and  scared.  A  man, 
passing,  said:  "Bonsoir,  mademoiselle;"  and  Nancy 
ran  on  with  a  beating  heart,  up  the  steps  and  into  the 
brilliantly  lighted  atrium.  Two  men  in  scarlet  and 
white  livery  stopped  her,  and  asked  what  she  wanted ; 
then  they  showed  her  into  an  open  room  on  the  left, 
where  men  that  looked  like  judges  and  lawyers  sat  in 
two  rows  behind  desks  waiting  for  her. 

She  stepped  uncertainly  up  to  one  of  them  —  he  was 
bald  with  a  pointed  beard — and  said:  "Pardon  .  .  . 
I  am  looking  for  Monsieur  della  Rocca." 

"  Ah,  indeed,"  said  the  man  with  the  beard.     "  I  have 


138  THE  DEVOURERS 

not  the  pleasure  of  his  acquaintance."  And  a  fair  man 
sitting  near  him  smiled. 

"Have  you  no  idea  where  I  can  find  him?"  said 
Nancy,  blushing  until  tears  came  to  her  eyes. 

"  What  is  he  ?    What  does  he  do  ?  "  asked  the  fair  man. 

"He  —  he  came  here  three  weeks  ago.  He  —  has  a 
system,"  stammered  Nancy.  "I  telegraphed,  but  he 
did  not  receive  my  telegram.  And  the  lady  of  the  hotel 
said  I  should  find  him  here." 

A  few  people  who  had  entered  and  stood  about  were 
listening  with  amused  faces. 

"Ha,  ha!  You  say  monsieur  has  a  system?"  said 
the  man  with  a  beard  in  a  loud  voice.  And  he  nodded 
significantly  to  someone  opposite  him  whom  Nancy 
could  not  see.  She  felt  that  by  mentioning  the  system 
she  had  ruined  her  husband's  chances  for  ever.  But 
nothing  seemed  to  matter  except  to  find  him,  and  not 
to  be  alone  any  more. 

"At  what  hotel  are  you  staying,  mademoiselle  ? " 
asked  the  fair  man. 

"  Hotel  des  Colonies,"  said  Nancy,  in  a  trembling  voice. 

"  And  your  name,  mademoiselle  ?  " 

"  Giovanna  Desiderata  Felicita  della  Rocca,"  said 
Nancy.  And  the  whole  row  of  men  smiled,  while  the 
one  before  whom  she  stood  wrote  her  name  in  a  large 
book. 

"  Your  profession  ?  " 

Nancy  had  read  "JAllce  in  Wonderland'/  when  she 
was  a  child,  and  now  she  knew  that  she  was  asleep. 
Otherwise,  why  should  she  be  telling  these  people  that 
she  wrote  poems  ? 

She  told  them  so.  And  they  pinched  their  noses 
and  pulled  their  moustaches,  because  they  were  laughing 


THE   DEVOURERS  139 

—  they  were  pouffant  de  rire  —  and  they  did  not  want 
to  show  it. 

"  And  .  .  .  she  did  nothing  else  but  write  poems  ? 
Nothing  else  at  all  ?  " 

"No,  nothing."  And  as  the  man  with  the  beard 
seemed  suddenly  to  be  staring  her  through  and  through, 
she  added  nervously:  "Except  ...  I  have  begun  a 
book  ...  a  novel.  But  it  is  not  finished." 

The  fair  man  suddenly  handed  her  a  little  piece 
of  blue  cardboard,  and  requested  her  to  write  her 
name  on  it.  She  said,  "  Why  ?  "  and  the  man  made 
a  gesture  with  his  hand  that  meant,  "  It  has  nothing  to 
do  with  me.  Do  not  do  so  if  you  do  not  wish." 

All  the  others  smiled  and  bent  their  heads  down,  and 
pretended  to  write. 

Nancy  looked  round  her  with  the  expression  of  a 
hunted  rabbit.  A  man  was  coming  in,  sauntering  along 
with  his  hand  in  his  pocket.  He  was  English,  Nancy 
saw  at  a  glance.  He  reminded  her  a  little  of  Mr.  Kings- 
ley.  Tom  Avory's  daughter  went  straight  towards  the 
new-comer,  and  said : 

"You  are  English?" 

"  I  am,"  said  the  Englishman. 

"  Will  you  please  help  me?  My  father  was  English," 
said  Nancy,  with  a  little  break  in  her  voice.  "  They  .  .  . 
they  want  me  to  write  my  name.  Shall  I  do  it  ?  " 

The  Englishman  smiled  slightly  under  his  straight- 
clipped,  light  moustache.  "  Do  you  want  to  go  into 
the  gaming-rooms  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Nancy. 

"Well,  write  your  name,  then,"  he  said,  and  walked 
back  to  the  desk  beside  her.  "  You  will  see  me  do  it 
too,"  he  added,  smiling,  as  he  gave  up  a  card  and  got 


140  THE  DEVOURERS 

another  one  in  return,  on  the  back  of  which  he  wrote 
"  Frederick  Allen." 

All  the  employes  were  quite  serious  again,  and  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  Nancy's  existence.  She  signed  her 
card,  and  entered  the  atrium  at  the  Englishman's  side. 

"  I  am  looking  for  my  husband,"  she  explained,  and 
told  him  the  story  of  the  system,  and  the  telegram,  and 
the  hotel.  "  I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  telling  all  this  over 
and  over  and  over  again,  like  the 


She  smiled,  and  the  dimple  cupped  sweetly  in  her  left 
cheek.  She  was  flushed,  and  her  dark  hair  had  twisted 
itself  into  little  damp  ringlets  on  her  forehead.  Mr. 
Allen  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"  I  am  sure  I  have  seen  you  before,"  he  said.  But 
he  could  not  remember  where.  Nancy  said  she  thought 
not. 

"  Oh,  I  am  sure  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Allen.  "  I  remember 
your  smile." 

But  the  smile  he  remembered  had  belonged  to  Valeria, 
when  she  stood  on  a  little  bridge  in  Hertfordshire,  and 
took  from  his  hands  a  garden  hat  that  had  fallen  into 
the  water. 

They  went  through  the  rooms,  and  the  chink,  chink, 
of  the  money,  and  the  heavy  perfume,  made  Nancy 
dizzy  and  bewildered.  Aldo  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 
They  went  from  table  to  table  —  the  season  was  ended, 
and  one  could  see  each  player  at  a  glance  —  then  into 
the  trente-et-quarante  rooms,  which  were  hushed  and 
darkened  ;  then  through  the  "  buffet,"  and  out  into  the 
atrium  again. 

Nancy  looked  up  at  her  companion,  and  tears  gathered 
in  her  eyes.  "  I  cannot  imagine  where  he  is  !  You 
do  not  think  —  you  do  not  think  -  "  And  in  her  wide, 


THE  DEVOUREKS  141 

frightened  eyes  passed  the  vision  of  Aldo,  lifeless  under 
a  palin-tree  in  the  gardens,  his  divine  eyes  broken,  his 
soft  hair  clotted  with  blood. 

"  I  think  he  is  all  right  enough,"  said  the  Englishman. 
"  We  can  look  in  the  Cafe  de  Paris." 

They  left  the  atrium  and  went  down  the  steps  and  out 
into  the  square  again.  The  "Valse  Bleue  "  was  swaying 
its  hackneyed  sweetness  across  the  dusk.  Nancy  started 
—  surely  that  was  Aldo !  There,  coming  out  of  the 
Cafe  de  Paris,  with  a  fat  woman  in  white  walking  beside 
him.  That  was  Aldo !  Nancy  hurried  on,  then  stopped. 
The  Englishman  stood  still  beside  her,  and  stared  dis- 
creetly at  the  trees  on  his  right-hand  side.  Aldo  and 
the  woman  had  sauntered  off  to  the  left,  and  now  sat 
down  on  a  bench  facing  the  Credit  Lyonnais. 

"  Will  you  wait  a  minute  ?  "  said  Nancy.  And  she 
ran  off  towards  the  bench,  while  Mr.  Allen  waited  and 
gazed  into  the  trees. 

Yes,  it  was  Aldo.  She  heard  him  laugh.  Who 
could  that  fat  woman  be  ?  She  hurried  on,  and  stopped 
a  few  paces  from  them. 

Aldo,  turning  round,  saw  her.  He  was  motionless 
with  astonishment  for  one  moment.  Then  he  bent  for- 
ward, and  said  a  word  or  two  to  his  companion.  She 
nodded,  and  he  rose  and  came  quickly  forward  to  Nancy. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  said.     "  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Aldo  !  "  she  said,  tears  of  relief  rilling  her  eyes. 
"  At  last !  I  have  looked  for  you  everywhere." 

"What  is  it?"  repeated  Aldo,  in  an  impatient  whisper. 
"  Not  —  not  Anne-Marie  ?  She  is  all  right  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  dear,"  said  Nancy,  drying  her  eyes.  "  Poor 
little  sweet  thing!  She  is  fast  asleep  at  the  hotel. 
Come  along!  Come  and  thank  an  English  gentleman 


142  THE  DEVOUREKS 

who "  She  was  about  to  slip  her  arm  through  his 

when  he  drew  back. 

"  Don't ! "  he  said.  "  Go  back  to  the  hotel  at  once ! 
I  shall  be  there  in  five  minutes.  You  don't  want  to 
spoil  everything,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Spoil  what  ?  "  said  Nancy. 

"Everything,"  said  Aldo.  "Our  prospects,  our 
future,  everything." 

"  Why  ?  How  ?  What  do  you  mean  ? "  Nancy 
looked  across  at  the  broad  figure  in  white  sitting  on  the 
bench ;  she  had  turned  round,  and  seemed  to  be  looking 
at  Nancy  through  a  lorgnon.  Nancy  could  discern  a 
large  face  and  golden  hair  under  a  white  straw  hat. 
"Who  is  that?" 

"  Oh,  she's  all  right,"  said  Aldo.  "  I  have  no  time 
to  explain  now.  Go  home,  and  do  as  I  tell  you.  If  you 
don't,"  he  added,  as  he  saw  indignant  protest  rising  to 
Nancy's  lips,  "you  and  the  child  will  have  to  bear  the 

consequences.  Eemember  what  I  tell  you you  and 

the  child." 

Then  he  raised  his  hat,  and  went  back  to  the  bench 
where  the  woman  was  awaiting  him.  Nancy,  paralyzed 
with  astonishment,  saw  him  sit  down,  saw  his  plausible 
back  and  explanatory  gestures,  while  the  woman  still 
looked  at  her  through  her  long-handled  lorgnon. 

She  walked  slowly  back  in  stupefaction.  The  English- 
man stood  where  she  had  left  him,  at  the  foot  of  the 
Casino  steps,  facing  the  trees.  He  had  lit  a  cigarette. 
He  turned,  when  she  was  near  him,  and  threw  the 
cigarette  away.  He  said : 

"  Are  you  coming  into  the  rooms  again  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Nancy. 

"  Shall  I  see  you  to  your  hotel  ?  " 


THE  DEVOUEEES  143 

"No,"  said  Nancy;  and  stood  there,  dull  and  ashamed. 

"Well,"  said  the  Englishman,  putting  out  his  hand 
in  a  brisk,  matter-of-fact  way,  "good-night."  He  shook 
her  chilly  hand.  Then  he  ventured  consolation.  "All 
the  same  a  hundred  years  hence,"  he  said,  and  turned 
quickly  into  the  Casino. 

He  did  not  stay.  He  came  out  a  moment  afterwards, 
and  followed  the  dreary  little  figure  in  its  grey  travelling 
dress  that  went  slowly  up  the  street,  and  round  to  the 
right.  When  he  had  seen  her  safely  enter  the  garden  of 
the  hotel  he  turned  back. 

"  Poor  little  girl !  "  he  said.  "  I  wonder  where  I  met 
her  before  ?  " 

Aldo  entered  the  hotel  half  an  hour  later,  and  went  to 
Nancy's  room,  armed  with  soothing  and  diplomatic 
explanations.  But  Nancy  was  on  her  knees  by  Anne- 
Marie's  bed,  with  her  face  buried  in  the  mosquito- 
netting,  and  did  not  move  when  he  entered. 

"  Why,  Nancy,  what's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Don't  wake  her,  please,"  said  Nancy. 

"  But  I  wanted  to  tell  you " 

"  Hush ! "  said  Nancy,  with  her  finger  on  her  lips  and 
her  eyes  on  Anne-Marie. 

"Then  come  to  my  room.  I  want  to  speak  to  you," 
said  Aldo. 

"  No,"  said  Nancy. 

"Well,"  said  Aldo,  "I  think  I  ought  to  explain " 

"  Hush ! "  said  Nancy  again.  Then  she  sat  on  a  chair 
near  the  child's  bed,  and  put  her  face  down  again  in  the 
mosquito-netting. 

Aldo  stood  about  the  room  for  a  time.  He  called  her 
name  twice,  but  she  did  not  answer.  Then  he  went 
upstairs  to  his  little  room  feeling  injured. 


144  THE  DEVOURERS 

IV 

EARLY  next  morning  Aldo  went  out  to  buy  a  doll  for 
Anne-Marie.  He  got  it  at  the  Condamine,  where  things 
are  cheaper.  It  went  to  his  heart  to  spend  seven  francs 
fifty  centimes  —  a  mise  and  a  half  —  but  the  cheaper  ones 
were  really  too  hideous  to  buy  peace  with.  For  one 
mad  moment  he  thought  of  buying  a  doll  with  real  eye- 
lashes that  cost  twenty-eight  francs.  But  considera- 
tions of  economy  were  stronger  than  his  fears,  and  he 
took  the  one  for  seven  francs  fifty,  whose  painted 
eyelashes  remained  irrelevantly  at  the  top  of  the  eyelids 
even  when  they  were  closed. 

Anne-Marie  was  delighted. 

Nancy  was  a  pale  and  chilly  statue.  Aldo  sent  Anne- 
Marie  and  the  Condamine  doll  to  play  in  the  garden, 
while  he  in  the  salon  de  lecture  explained. 

The  systems  were  rank  and  rotten.  All  of  them. 
Rank — and — rotten.  Grimaux,  the  croupier,  had  told  him 
so.  There  was  only  one  way  of  winning,  and  that  was 

"I  know  all  that,"  said  Nancy.  "Who  was  that 
woman  ?  " 

Aldo  raised  reproachful,  nocturnal  eyes  to  her  face. 
She  looked  smaller  than  usual,  but  very  stern. 

"  Nancy,"  he  said.    "  Tesoro  mio !    My  treasure !  .  .  . " 

But  Nancy  ignored  the  eyes  and  the  outstretched 
hand.  "  Who  is  she  ?  " 

"  She  is  nobody  —  absolutely  nobody  !  An  old  thing 
with  a  yellow  wig.  Her  name  is  Doyle.  How  can  you 
go  on  like  that,  my  love  ?  " 

But  Nancy  could  go  on,  and  did.     "  She  is  English  ?  " 

"No,  no;  American.  A  weird  old  thing  from  the 
prairies."  And  Aldo  laughed  loudly,  but  alone. 


THE   DEVOVRERS  145 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Nancy,  with  tight  lips,  when  Aldo  had 
quite  finished  laughing. 

"  Well,  Grimaux,  who  has  been  here  sixteen  years, 
said  to  me :  '  The  mistake  everyone  makes  is  to  double 
on  their  losses.  When  you  lose ' " 

Aldo's  slim  hands  waved,  his  shoulders  shrugged,  his 
long  eyes  turned  upward.  Nancy  watched  him,  cold 
and  detached.  "  He  looks  like  the  oyster-sellers  of  Santa 
Lucia  ! "  she  said  to  herself.  "  How  could  I  ever  think 
him  beautiful  ? "  Then  she  saw  Anne-Marie  in  the 
garden  kissing  the  Condamine  doll,  and  she  forgave  him. 

"When  you  lose,"  Aldo  was  saying,  "you  run  after 
your  losses  —  you  double,  you  treble,  you  go  on,  et  voild,! 
la  (Ubdcle!  —  whereas  when  you  win  you  go  carefully, 
staking  little  stakes,  satisfied  with  a  louis  at  a  time,  and 
when  you  have  won  one  hundred  francs,  out  you  go,  say- 
ing :  '  That  is  enough  for  to-day ! '  Now  that  is  wrong, 
quite  wrong.  What  you  ought  to  do  is  to  follow  up 
your  wins,  so  that  when  the  streak  of  luck  does  come  — " 

"  I  have  heard  quite  enough  about  that,"  said  Nancy. 
"  Tell  me  the  rest." 

"Well,"  said  Aldo  sulkily,  "I  wish  you  would  not 
jump  at  a  fellow.  The  rest  is  merely  this:  The  good 
old  prairie-chicken "  —  he  went  off  into  another  peal  of 
laughter,  and  left  off  again  when  he  had  finished  —  "  she 
was  — she  was  just  promising  to  put  up  the  money  when 
you  came  along.  And  you  know  what  women  are. 
They  —  they  hate  families,"  said  Aldo. 

Nancy  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face  without  moving. 

"  I  do  not  know  why  you  look  at  me  like  that,"  said 
Aldo  sulkily. 

Nancy  got  up.  "  There  is  a  train  at  one  o'clock,"  she 
said ;  "  we  will  take  it." 

L 


146  THE .  DEVOURERS 

She  went  upstairs ;  Aldo  went  out  into  the  garden 
and  played  with  Anne-Marie  and  the  Condamine  doll. 

At  twelve  Nancy  looked  out  of  the  window.  She 
called  Anne-Marie,  who  came  unwillingly,  dragging  the 
doll  upstairs,  and  followed  by  Aldo. 

"We  are  ready,"  said  Nancy,  tying  -the  white 
ribbons  of  a  floppy  straw  hat  under  Anne-Marie's  chin. 
Anne-Marie  sat  on  the  bed  kicking  her  feet  in  their  tan 
travelling-boots  up  and  down.  Aldo  sat  near  the  table, 
and  drummed  on  it  with  his  fingers. 

"  Who  is  going  to  pay  the  hotel  bill  ?  "  he  said. 

Nancy  looked  up.     "  Have  you  no  money  ?  " 

"  I  have  eighty-two  francs  and  forty  centimes,"  said 
Aldo. 

"Where  is  the  rest?" 

«  Gone." 

Nancy  sat  down  on  the  bed  near  Anne-Marie.  There 
was  a  long  silence. 

Aldo  fidgeted,  and  said :  "  I  told  you  the  systems  were 
all  wrong." 

Nancy  did  not  answer.  She  was  thinking.  She  under- 
stood nothing  about  money,  but  she  knew  what  this 
meant.  How  were  they  to  go  back  to  Milan  ?  How 
were  they  to  live  ?  With  her  mother  ?  Her  mother  had 
had  to  scrape  and  be  careful  since  the  forty  thousand 
francs  had  been  given  to  Aldo.  She  had  brought  smaller 
boxes  of  chocolate  to  Anne-Marie.  She  took  no  cabs, 
and  was  wearing  a  last  year's  cloak  of  Aunt  Carlotta's. 
Aun  Carlotta  herself  was  always  grumbling  that  when 
she  wanted  to  spend  five  francs  she  turned  them  over 
three  times,  and  then  put  them  into  her  purse  again,  and 
that  Adele  could  not  find  a  husband  because  her  dot  was 
small,  and  men  asked  for  nothing  but  money  nowadays. 


THE   DEVOUREKS  147 

There  was  Zio  Giacomo,  dear,  grumpy  old  man.  But  he 
had  all  Nino's  old  debts  to  pay,  and  everybody  was 
always  borrowing  from  him.  Distant  relations  and 
seedy  old  friends  visited  and  wrote  to  him  periodically ; 
and  Zio  Giacomo  was  enraged,  and  always  vowed  that 
this  would  be  the  last  time.  .  .  .  The  only  wealthy  person 
connected  with  the  family  was  Aide's  brother,  Carlo. 
But  Nancy  knew  that  Aldo  had  exhausted  all  from  that 
source.  What  would  happen?  What  were  they  going 
to  do  ?  She  looked  at  Aldo,  who  sat  in  the  arm-chair, 
with  his  head  thrown  back  and  his  eyes  on  the  ceiling. 
He  knew  she  had  likened  him  to  San  Sebastian,  and  now 
to  move  her  pity  as  much  as  possible  he  assumed  the 
expression  of  the  adolescent  saint  pierced  with  arrows. 

Nancy  turned  her  eyes  from  him.  The  sight  of  him 
irritated  her  beyond  endurance.  She  looked  at  Anne- 
Marie,  sitting  good  and  happy  beside  her,  playing  with 
the  doll.  She  bent  and  kissed  the  child's  cool  pink 
cheek. 

Aldo  sat  up,  and  said  :  "  I  had  better  go." 

"Where  to? "  said  Nancy. 

"  To  the  Casino,  of  course,"  said  Aldo.  "  I  promised 
to  be  there  at  twelve-thirty." 

"  To  meet  that  woman  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Aldo  sulkily. 

"  Oh ! "  gasped  Nancy,  and  her  hands  clasped  in 
deepest  shame  for  him.  "  What  blood  is  in  your  veins  ?  " 

It  was  the  blood  of  many  generations  of  Neapolitan 
'  fiazzaroni  —  beautiful,  lazy  animals,  content  to  lie  stretched 
I  Jin  the  sun  —  crossed  and  altered  by  the  blood  of  the 
|leconomical  shopkeeping  grandfather,  who  sold  corals 
.*  and  views  of  Vesuvius  in  the  Via  Caracciolo. 

Aldo  felt  that  it  was  time  to  hold  his  own.     "  It  is 


148  THE   DEVOURERS 

easy  enough  for  you  to  talk,"  he  said.  "  But  what  else 
can  I  do?" 

Anne-Marie  lifted  the  Condamine  doll  to  her  mother. 
"  Kiss,"  she  said.  Then  she  stretched  it  out  towards  her 
father.  "  Kiss,"  she  said.  Aldo  jumped  up,  and  fell 
on  his  knees  before  them  both.  He  kissed  the  doll,  and 
he  kissed  Anne-Marie's  little  coat,  and  Nancy's  knees, 
and  then  he  put  his  head  on  Anne-Marie's  lap  and  wept. 
Anne-Marie  screamed  and  cried,  and  Nancy  kissed  them 
both,  and  comforted  them. 

"Never  mind — never  mind!  It  will  all  come  right. 
Don't  cry,  Aldo !  It  is  dreadful !  I  cannot  bear  to  see 
you  cry." 

Aldo  sobbed,  and  said  he  ought  to  go  and  shoot  him- 
self. And  after  Nancy  had  forgiven,  and  comforted,  and 
encouraged  him,  he  raised  his  reddened  eyes  and  blurred 
face.  "  Well,  then,  shall  I  go  ?  "  he  said. 

Nancy  turned  white.  It  was  hopeless.  He  did  not 
understand.  He  was  what  he  was,  and  did  not  know 
that  one  could  be  anything  else. 

"  No,"  she  said.  And  he  sat  down  and  sighed,  and 
looked  out  of  the  window. 

Nancy  went  to  the  stout  proprietress  and  asked  for 
the  bill.  While  it  was  being  made  out,  the  kindly 
woman  said :  "  Are  you  leaving  to-day,  madame  ?  " 

Nancy  blushed,  and  said :  "  I  do  not  know  until  I  have 
seen  the  bill." 

The  proprietress,  who  had  heard  the  noise  upstairs — 
for  Aldo  cried  loud  like  a  child  —  and  was  slightly  anxious 
in  regard  to  her  money,  said :  "  Has  monsieur  already 
had  the  viatique  ?  "  Nancy  did  not  understand.  "  The 
viatique  of  the  Casino.  If  monsieur  has  played  and  lost, 
the  administration  will  give  him  something  back.  Let 


THE  DEVOUKERS  149 

him  go  and  ask  for  it.  And,"  she  added,  glancing  at  the 
brooch  at  Nancy's  neck,  "if  perhaps  madame  should 
wish  to  know  it,  the  Mont  de  Piete*  is  not  far  — just  past 
the  Credit  Lyonnais." 

The  bill  was  one  hundred  and  twenty-three  francs. 
Nancy  told  Aldo  about  the  viatique,  and  he  said,  with  a 
hang-dog  air,  he  would  go  and  ask  for  it. 

"  How  much  do  you  think  it  will  be  ?  "  asked  Nancy. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Aldo,  who  felt  that  he  must  be 
glum. 

"  Two  or  three  thousand  francs  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Aldo. 

"You  will  accept  nothing  from  that  woman.  You 
promise ! " 

"I  promise,"  said  Aldo,  laying  flabby  fingers  in  her 
earnest,  outstretched  hand. 

So  he  went,  and  when  he  was  out  of  sight  of  the  hotel 
he  hurried. 

Nancy  packed  his  trunk  for  him,  and  felt  pity  and  half 
remorse  as  she  folded  his  limp,  well-known  clothes,  his 
helpless  coats  and  defenceless  waistcoats,  and  put  them 
away.  He  had  no  character.  It  was  not  his  fault.  She 
ought  not  to  have  allowed  him  to  come  here.  He  was  not 
a  wall ;  Clarissa  had  told  her  so  long  ago.  He  was  weak, 
and  limp,  and  foolish.  "Well,  Nancy  would  be  the  wall. 
Already  she  knew  what  to  do.  Say  the  Casino  gave 
them  back  three  or  four  thousand  francs.  They  would 
go  back  to  Milan,  give  up  the  home  in  Via  Senato,  and  i 
take  a  cheaper  apartment  in  the  Quartieri  Nuovi.  She 
would  write.  She  would  work  again.  Ah !  at  the 
thought  of  her  work  her  blood  quickened.  The  baby 
should  stay  with  Valeria,  because  it  was  impossible  to: 
do  any  serious  work  with  Anne-Marie  tugging  at  one's) 


150  THE  DEVOURERS 

skirts  and  at  one's  heart-strings.  She  would  go  and  see 
the  baby  every  evening  after  she  had  written  five  or  six 
hours.  Aldo  would  return  to  Zio  Giacomo's  office- 
Good  old  Zio  Gia.com  o  would  be  glad  to  take  him  back 
for  Valeria's  and  Nancy's  sake,  and  they  would  live 
quietly  and  modestly.  Aldo  should  superintend  the 
household  expenses,  and  squabble  over  the  bills  with 
the  servant  —  he  loved  to  do  that ;  and  by  the  time  the 
three,  or  four,  or  five  thousand  francs  that  the  Casino 
had  given  them  were  finished  The  Book  would  be  out. 
"  The  Cycle  of  Lyrics "  had  brought  her  in  twenty 
thousand  francs,  and  it  was  only  a  slender  volume  of 
verse.  This  book  would  make  a  great  stir  in  Italy  —  she 
knew  it  —  and  it  would  be  translated  into  all  languages. 
She  wished  she  had  the  manuscript  here.  She  felt  that 
she  could  start  it  again  at  once. 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  remembered.  All  the  people 
she  had  created,  bound  together  by  the  scarlet  thread  of 
the  conception,  rushed  out  from  the  neglected  pages,  and 
entered  her  heart  again.  She  felt  like  browning's  lion  ; 
you  could  see  by  her  eye,  wide  and  steady,  she  was 
leagues  in  the  desert  already.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  Anne-Marie,  who  had  been  playing  like  a 
little  lamb  of  gold  on  the  balcony,  gave  a  scream :  the 
doll  had  gone.  The  doll  had  fallen  over  the  balcony. 
It  was  gone !  It  was  dead !  Nancy  looked  over  the 
ledge.  Yes,  there  lay  the  Condamine  doll  on  the  gravel- 
path  in  the  garden.  And  it  was  dead.  Half  of  its  face 
had  jumped  away  and  lay  some  distance  off. 

Aldo,  entering  the  garden  at  that  moment,  saw  it,  and 
picked  it  up.  Then  he  looked  up  at  the  balcony,  and 
saw  Nancy's  troubled  face  and  the  distracted  counte- 
nance of  his  little  daughter. 


THE   DEVOURERS  151 

He  waved  his  hand,  and  went  out  again,  taking  the 
dead  doll  with  him.  He  hailed  a  carriage,  and  told  the 
driver  to  drive  quickly  to  the  Condamine.  He  bought 
the  doll  with  the  real  eyelashes  for  twenty-two  francs 
—  he  made  them  knock  off  six  francs  —  and  returned 
with  clatter  of  horses  and  cracking  of  whip  to  the 
hotel. 

When  Anne-Marie  saw  the  doll,  and  when  Nancy  saw 
Anne-Marie's  face,  Aldo  knew  he  was  forgiven  and 
reinstated. 

"What  have  they  given  you  back  at  the  Casino?" 
asked  Nancy. 

"I  don't  know.  I  am  to  go  again  in  two  hours," 
said  Aldo.  "  Let  us  have  luncheon." 

They  had  an  excellent  luncheon,  for,  confronted  with  a 
desperate  situation  in  which  the  economizing  of  fifty 
centimes  meant  nothing,  the  ancestral  shopkeeper  in 
Aide's  veins  bowed,  and  left  room  for  the  lazzarone,  who 
ate  his  spaghetti  to-day,  and  troubled  not  about  the 
morrow. 

"  If  they  give  you  five  or  six  thousand  francs,  I  suppose 
we  must  not  complain.  We  cannot  expect  to  get  back 
the  entire  eighteen  thousand,"  said  Nancy. 

"No,"  said  Aldo,  with  downcast  eyelids.  He  knew 
something  about  viatiques,  but  he  would  not  let  this 
knowledge  spoil  their  lunch.  After  all,  the  luncheon  cost 
twelve  francs.  It  must  not  be  wasted. 

"Did  you  see  her?"  asked  Nancy,  tying  a  table- 
napkin  round  the  doll's  neck  at  Anne-Marie's  request. 

"  Whom  ?  "  said  Aldo,  with  his  mouth  full. 

"  The  —  the  prairie-chicken,"  said  Nancy,  to  make  him 
feel  that  he  was  quite  forgiven. 

"  Oh  yes ;  I  saw  her,"  said  Aldo. 


152  THE  DEVOURERS 

Nancy  put  down  her  knife  and  fork,  and  felt  faint. 
"  Well  ?  " 

Aldo  cleared  his  throat,  took  a  sip  of  wine,  and  said, 
"  She  is  an  old  beast." 

There  was  a  pause,  then  he  continued :  "  I  made  a 
clear  breast  of  it.  I  told  her  who  you  were,  and  about 
Anne-Marie ;  and  when  I  had  finished  she  called  me  a —  a 
—  oh,  some  vulgar  American  name,  and  off  she  walked." 

Nancy  reached  across  the  table  and  patted  his  hand. 
"  That's  right,  Aldo." 

"I  told  you,"  he  said,  nodding  his  head,  "that  that 
kind  of  woman  cannot  stand  the  idea  of  a  fellow  having 
a  family." 

"Perhaps,"  suggested  Nancy,  dimpling,  "she  could 
not  stand  the  idea  of  the  way  the  fellow  treated  his 
family." 

"  Well,  never  mind,"  said  Aldo.     "  She's  done  with." 

But  she  wasn't. 

At  four  o'clock  Aldo,  Nancy,  Anne-Marie,  and  the 
doll  went  out,  and  down  to  the  square  in  front  of  the 
Casino.  Nancy  and  the  child  sat  on  a  bench  facing 
the  Casino,  and  Aldo  went  in  to  get  the  watique.  He 
came  out  a  few  minutes  later  looking  flushed  and  angry. 

"  The  canailles  !    The  thieves !    The  robbers  ! " 

"What  is  it?"  said  Nancy. 

"  They  have  given  me  one  hundred  and  fifty  francs ! " 
and  he  held  out  the  three  fifty-franc  notes  con- 
temptuously. 

"  A  hundred  —  and —  fifty  francs  !  "  gasped  Nancy. 

"Nancy,  there  is  only  one  thing  to  do,"  said  Aldo. 
"  Go  in  and  play  them.  Plank  them  down  on  a  number, 
and  if  they  go,  let  them  go,  and  be  done  with." 

"  Do  it,"  said  Nancy,  for  nothing  mattered. 


THE  DEVOURERS  153 

"  I  can't,"  said  Aldo.  "  I  can't  go  in  —  not  until  this 
miserable  dole  is  paid  back.  You  must  go.  They  will 
let  you  in.  Go  on." 

Nancy  rose,  flushed  and  trembling.  "  What  do  I  do  ? 
How  do  I  play  it?" 

"Oh,  anyhow.  It  makes  no  difference,"  said  Aldo, 
with  his  face  in  his  hands,  suddenly  realizing  that  they 
three  possessed  in  the  world  one  hundred  and  ninety 
francs,  and  a  debt  of  one  hundred  and  twenty-three. 
He  turned  to  the  child. 

"  Say  a  number,  Anne-Marie !     Any  old  number ! " 

Anne-Marie  did  not  understand. 

"You  know  your  numbers,  darling,"  said  Nancy, 
"  that  grandmamma  taught  you." 

"  Oh,  yeth,"  said  Anne-Marie.     "  One,  two,  three,  four." 

"Stop.  All  right,"  said  Aldo.  "Nancy,  go  in  and 
play  —  at  any  table  you  like  —  the  quatre  premiers  and 
quatre  en  plein.  That  gives  you  zero,  too.  Go  ahead! 
Les  quatre  premiers  and  quatre  en  plein.  Remember. 
Tell  the  croupier  to  do  it  for  you." 

Nancy  went  straight  in,  and  to  the  left,  where  the  men 
sat  who  had  laughed  at  her  the  night  before.  They 
recognized  her,  and  gave  her  a  card  at  once. 

She  went  into  the  rooms.  Chink,  chink ;  chink,  chink. 
She  went  to  the  table  on  the  left.  A  red-haired  croupier 
sat  at  the  end  of  the  table  nearest  her,  and  she  went  to 
him,  and  gave  him  one  of  the  fifty-franc  notes. 

"  Les  quatre  premiers  et  quatre  en  plein,"  she  said. 

But  it  was  too  late.  "  Rien  ne  va  plus,"  said  the  man 
in  the  centre.  "  Trente-deux,  noir,  pair  et  passe." 

The  croupier  handed  her  back  the  note.  "You're 
lucky,"  he  said.  "You  would  have  lost."  She  repeated 
her  phrase,  and  he  put  the  note  on  the  top  of  his  rake 


154  THE   DEVOUKEKS 

and  passed  it  across  the  table.  "  Quatre  premiers,"  he 
said,  and  the  man  in  the  middle  placed  it. 

"  Et  quoi  encore  ?  "  said  the  croupier,  looking  at  Nancy. 

"  Quatre  premiers  et  quatre  en  plein,"  repeated  Nancy, 
mechanically. 

"Combien  a  1'en  plein?"  said  the  man,  holding  out 
his  hand. 

Nancy  gave  him  the  second  fifty-franc  note,  and  he 
passed  it  up  on  his  rake.  "  Quatre  en  plein." 

"  Quatre  en  plein.  Tout  va  aux  billets,"  said  the  man 
in  the  centre ;  and  the  ball  whizzed  round.  Nancy's 
heart  was  thumping ;  it  shook  her ;  it  beat  like  a  drum. 
The  little  ball  dropped,  ran  along  awhile,  stopped, 
clattered  and  clicked,  and  fell  into  a  compartment. 

"Trois." 

Everybody  looked  at  Nancy  as  she  was  paid,  and  she 
collected  the  gold  and  silver  with  clumsy  hands. 
"Encore,"  she  said,  giving  the  croupier  the  remaining 
bill  and  some  louis. 

"Quoi?"  said  the  croupier. 

"  Encore  la  meme  chose."    The  ball  was  running  round. 

"  Mais  qa  y  est,"  said  the  croupier,  for  the  fifty-franc 
note  that  had  won  still  lay  at  the  corner  of  the  top  line. 

"  Mais  non,  mais  non,"  said  Nancy,  who  was  very 
much  confused,  "  premier  quatre  "  —  the  man  placed  the 
note  on  the  other  note  still  lying  there  —  "  et  quatre  en 
plein."  But  for  this  last  it  was  too  late. 

"  Eien  ne  va  plus.     Zero ! " 

"  Voila  !  qa  y  est !  "  said  the  croupier,  returning  the  gold 
to  her,  and  waiting  with  the  rake  on  the  table  for  the 
eight  hundred  francs  to  be  paid. 

What  is  the  secret  of  luck  ?  How  shall  it  be  forced  ? 
How  explained?  Whatever  Nancy  did,  she  won. 


THE  DEVOUREKS  155 

Wherever  her  money  lay  there  the  ball  went.  When  she 
thought  she  had  enough  —  her  hands  were  full,  her  place 
at  the  table  was  piled  up  with  louis  and  silver  and  notes  — 
and  she  was  withdrawing  her  remaining  stake  and  the 
gold  paid  on  it  with  clumsy  rake,  she  moved  it  away 
from  the  numbers,  and  left  it  on  "  pair "  while  she  put 
down  the  rake.  A  minute  was  lost  while  a  woman  said 
something  to  her,  and  before  she  could  take  the  money 
up  the  ball  had  fallen.  "  Vingt.  Pair  et  passe."  It 
was  doubled. 

When  she  at  last  tremblingly  collected  it  all  in  her 
hands,  and  put  gold  and  notes  as  best  she  could  into  her 
pocket,  she  rose,  and  could  hardly  see.  Her  cheeks 
were  flaming.  She  passed  out  of  the  rooms,  into  the 
atrium,  and  down  the  steps.  Aldo  sat  on  the  bench  with 
his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  his  head  in  his  hands  and 
the  doll  in  his  arms.  Anne-Marie  was  running  up  and 
down  in  front  of  him. 

"  Aldo,"   said  Nancy,  and  sat  down  weakly  at  his  side. 

"  Gone  ?  "  asked  Aldo,  raising  a  miserable  face. 

"  No ! "  Nancy  had  a  little  hysterical  laugh.  She  piled 
the  money  into  his  hands,  then  into  her  lap,  while  he 
counted  it  quickly,  deftly.  People  passing  looked  at 
them,  and  smiled. 

"  Seven  thousand  eight  hundred  francs,"  said  Aldo, 
very  pale. 

"  Oh,  but  there  is  more ; "  and  Nancy  dived  into  her 
pocket  again.  There  was  over  fourteen  thousand  francs. 

"  Come  into  the  Cafe  de  Paris,"  said  Aldo. 

They  drank  coffee  and  crime  de  menthe,  and  Nancy  had 
strawberry  ice  and  cakes.  The  band  played  "  Sous  la 
Feuillee." 

"  Oh  what  a  lovely  world  it  is ! "  said  Nancy,  with  a 


156  THE  DEVOUKERS 

little  sob.  "  Oh,  what  a  glorious  place  !  I  love  it  all ! 
I  love  everybody ! " 

"I  love  evlybody,"  said  Anne-Marie,  taking  a  third 
cake  with  careful  choice.  Aldo  and  Nancy  laughed. 

The  Englishman  passed,  and  Nancy  called  him.  She 
introduced  him  to  Aldo,  and  Aldo  thanked  him  for  being 
kind  to  Nancy  the  evening  before.  Nancy  told  him 
about  the  fourteen  thousand  francs  she  had  won,  and 
they  all  laughed,  and  the  band  played,  and  the  sun 
shone  and  went  down. 

"  The  best  train  for  Italy,"  said  Mr.  Allen  suddenly, 
"is  at  six-twenty.  You  have  just  an  hour.  It's  a 
splendid  train.  You  get  to  Milan  at  eleven." 

Aldo  looked  at  Nancy,  and  Nancy  looked  at  the  sky. 
It  was  light  and  tender,  and  the  air  was  still.  The 
Tsiganes  were  playing  "Violets,"  and  in  the  distance 
lay  the  sea. 

"  We  must  take  that  train,"  said  Aldo,  getting  up  and 
rapping  his  saucer  for  the  waiter. 

"  Oh  no ! "  said  Nancy.  "  Please  not !  Let  us  stay 
here  and  be  happy." 

"  Stay  here  and  be  happy,"  said  Anne-Marie,  with  a 
bewitching  smile. 

They  stayed. 


ALDO  repaid  the  viatique  and  went  into  the  gambling- 
rooms  with  Nancy.  The  proprietress  of  the  hotel  got 
them  a  bonne  from  Vintimille,  who  walked  up  and  down 
in  the  gardens  with  Anne-Marie,  and  carried  the  doll. 
She  cost  nothing  —  only  fifty  francs  a  month !  They 
arranged  to  take  pension  at  the  hotel.  That  also  cost 
nothing  —  twelve  francs  a  day  each.  They  took  drives 


THE  DEVOURERS  157 

that  cost  nothing  —  sixteen  francs  to  La  Tiirbie,  twenty 
francs  to  Cap  Martin.  Nothing  cost  anything.  Ten 
minutes  at  the  tables,  and  Nancy  had  won  enough  to 
pay  everything  for  a  month. 

She  sent  a  cloak  to  her  mother,  which  Valeria  vowed 
was  much  too  beautiful  to  wear.  She  sent  presents  to 
Aunt  Carlotta  and  Zio  Giacomo,  to  Adele  and  to  Nino, 
to  Carlo  and  to  Clarissa.  And  she  remembered  a  man 
with  no  legs,  who  sat  in  a  little  cart  on  the  Corso  in 
Milan,  and  she  sent  her  mother  one  hundred  francs  to 
give  him.  Anne-Marie  was  dressed  in  a  white  corded 
silk  coat,  and  a  white-plumed  hat.  The  bonne  had  a 
large  Scotch  bow  with  streamers. 

This  lasted  ten  days.  On  the  eleventh  day  it  was 
ended.  Nancy  played  gaily,  and  lost.  She  played 
carefully,  and  lost.  She  played  tremblingly,  and  lost. 
She  played  recklessly,  and  lost.  Aldo,  who  did  not  trust 
his  own  luck,  followed  her  from  table  to  table,  saying: 
"  Be  careful !  .  .  .  Don't !  ...  Do !  ...  Why  did  you  ? 
Why  didn't  you?  I  told  you  so!"  And  at  each 
table  la  guigne  was  waiting  for  them,  pushing  Nancy's 
hand  in  the  wrong  direction,  whispering  the  wrong 
numbers  in  her  ear.  Ten  times  they  made  up  their 
minds  to  stop,  and  ten  times  they  decided  to  try  just 
once  more.  "  We  have  about  nine  thousand  francs  left. 
With  that  we  are  paupers  for  the  rest  of  our  lives.  With 
luck  we  might  recoup." 

This  lasted  two  days.  On  the  third  day  they  had  one 
thousand  and  eighty  francs  left.  "Play  the  eighty," 
said  Aldo,  "  and  we  will  keep  the  thousand."  They  lost 
the  eighty,  and  then  four  hundred  francs  more.  "What 
is  the  good  of  six  hundred  francs,"  said  Aldo,  and  they 
played  on. 


158  THE   DEVOURERS 

Their  last  two  louis  Aldo  threw  on  a  transversale. 
They  won.  "  Let  us  leave  it  all  on,"  said  Aldo.  They 
won  again. 

"  Shall  we  risk  it  again  ? "  said  Nancy,  with  flushed 
cheeks  and  galloping  heart. 

Aide's  lips  were  dry  and  pale ;  he  could  not  speak. 
He  nodded.  And  a  third  time  they  won.  The  croupier 
flattened  the  notes  out  on  the  table  and  knocked  the 
little  pile  of  gold  lightly  over  with  his  rake.  He  counted, 
and  paid  five  times  the  already  quintupled  stake. 

Aldo  bent  forward  and  picked  up  a  rake  to  draw  in  his 
winnings.  A  man  sitting  near  the  centre  of  the  table 
put  out  his  hand,  and  took  the  piled-up  notes  and  gold. 

"  Ah,  pardon  I "  cried  Aldo,  striking  the  rake  down  on 
the  notes  and  holding  them  ;  "  that  is  mine." 

"  Pardon !  pardon !  pardon !  "  said  the  man,  laying  his 
hand  firmly  on  the  notes.  "C'est  ma  mise  a  moi! 
Voila  deja  trois  coups  que  je  1'y  laisse " 

Aldo  was  incoherent  with  excitement,  and  Nancy 
joined  in,  very  pale.  "It  is  ours,  monsieur." 

"  Ah,  mais  c'est  par  trop  fort,"  cried  the  other,  who 
was  French,  and  had  a  loud  voice.  He  pushed  Aide's 
rake  aside,  and  took  the  money. 

Aldo  appealed  to  the  croupiers,  and  to  the  people  near 
him,  and  to  the  people  opposite  him.  They  shrugged 
their  shoulders  and  raised  their  eyebrows.  They  had 
not  seen,  they  did  not  know. 

"  Faites  vos  jeux,  messieurs,"  said  the  croupier. 

The  ball  whizzed;  the  game  went  on.  Aldo,  burning 
with  rage,  and  Nancy  pale  and  dazed,  left  the  table. 

"  Oh,  Aldo !  Let  us  go  away.  This  is  a  horrible 
place.  Let  us  go  away." 

Aldo  did  not  answer. 


THE  DEVOURERS  159 

They  went  out  into  the  sunshine.  Laughing  women 
lifting  light  dresses  and  showing  their  high  heels  came 
hurrying  across  the  square.  The  warm  air  was  heavy 
with  the  scent  of  flowers.  They  turned  into  the  gardens, 
and  before  them  was  the  dancing  sea ;  and  Anne-Marie, 
looking  like  an  Altezza  Serenissima,  tripped  up  and 
down  in  her  white  corded  silk  coat,  her  brief  curls 
bobbing  under  her  white-plumed  hat. 

Behind  her  walked  the  Vintimille  servant  with  the 
Scotch  silk  bow  on  her  head,  and  carried  the  doll  with 
the  real  eyelashes. 

VI 

#  *  *  *  * 

NEW  YORK. 
MOTHER  DEAR, 

I  shall  send  you  this  letter  when  nothing  that  I 

have  written  in  it  is  true  any  more.     If  we  ever  live 

through  and  out  of  it,  you  shall  know ;  if  not  —  but,  of 

course,  we  shall.    We  must.     One  cannot  die  of  poverty, 

•   can  one?      One   does  not  really,   actually   suffer    real 

i    hunger,  does  one,  mother  dear  ?    "  Zu  Grunde  gehen !  " 

The   sombre   old   German  words  keep  rumbling  in  my 

head  like  far-away  thunder.     "  Zu  Grunde  gehen  ! " 

I  do  not  suppose  one  really  does  go  "  zu  Grunde." 
But  when  one  has  forty-five  dollars  in  the  world,  and 
a  funny  little  bird  with  its  beak  open  expecting  to  be  fed 
—  and  fed  on  chocolates  and  bonbons  when  it  wants 
them  —  one  becomes  demoralized  and  frightened,  and 
pretends  to  think  that  one  might  really  starve. 

Do  not  think  it  unkind  that  I  did  not  come  to  Milan 
to  kiss  you  and  say  good-bye.  I  had  not  the  heart  to 
do  so.  Aldo,  too,  said  we  could  not  afford  it,  and,  indeed, 


160  THE   DEVOURERS 

our  combined  viatiques  and  our  jewellery  only  just 
enabled  us  to  come  here. 

We  landed  three  days  ago.  Yesterday  morning  I 
sent  you  a  postcard :  "  Arrived  happily."  Happily  ! 
Oh,  mother  dear,  I  think  there  must  be  a  second  higher 
and  happier  heaven  for  those  who  are  brave  enough  to 
tell  untruths  of  this  kind.  Enough ;  we  landed,  Anne- 
Marie  looking  like  a  spoilt  princess ;  I  with  my  Monte 
Carlo  hat  and  coat,  and  high-heeled,  impertinent  shoes ; 
and  Aldo,  a  pallid  Antinous,  with  forty-five  dollars  in 
his  pocket-book. 

Then  came  the  Via  Crucis  of  looking  for  rooms. 
Mother,  did  I  ever  stay  at  the  Hotel  Nazionale  in  Rome, 
and  descend  languidly  the  red-carpeted  stairs  to  the 
royal  automobile  that  was  to  drive  me  to  the  Quirinal  ? 
Did  I  ever  sit  at  home  in  Uncle  Giacomo's  large  arm-chair 
and  listen  benignly  to  moonstruck  poets  reading  their 
songs?  Did  I  ever  with  languid  fingers  ring  bells  for 
servants,  and  order  what  I  wanted  ? 

"  Cio  awenne  forse  ai  tempi 
D'Omero  e  di  Valinichi " 

That  was  another  Nancy.  This  Nancy  trudged  for 
hours  through  straight  and  terrible  streets  called 
avenues,  with  a  dismal  husband  and  a  tired  baby  at  her 
side.  Third  Avenue,  Fourth  Avenue,  then  quickly 
across  Fifth  Avenue,  which  had  nothing  to  do  with  us, 
and  again  across  to  Sixth  Avenue  .  .  .  and  everywhere 
dirty  shops,  screaming  children,  jostling  girls,  rude  men, 
trains  rushing  overhead,  street-cars  screeching  and 
clanging.  Then,  at  last,  Seventh  Avenue,  where  there 
were  streets  full  of  quiet,  squalid  boarding-houses,  fewer 
screaming  children,  fewer  dirty  shops,  and  no  trains. 


THE   DEVOUKEKS  161 

We  went  into  a  cheap,  clean-looking  place  that  a  porter 
had  told  us  of.  A  woman  opened.  She  looked  at  my 
hat  and  coat,  and  at  my  shoes,  and  said :  "  What  do 

you  want?"  "A  room, "began  Aldo.  She  shut 

the  door  without  answering.  At  the  next  house  a  woman 
in  a  dirty  silk  dressing-gown  opened  the  door.  "Yes, 
they  had  rooms.  Eight  dollars  a  day.  Meals  a  dollar." 
In  the  next  house  they  took  no  children.  In  the  next, 
no  foreigners.  Our  expensive  clothes  in  their  cheap 
street  made  them  suspicious.  Aide's  handsome  face 
made  them  suspicious.  His  Italian  accent  frightened 
them.  And  Anne-Marie  cried  every  time  a  new  face 
appeared  at  a  new  door. 

At  last  Aldo  said:  "I  will  go  to  the  Italian  consul. 
You  wait  here  in  a  baker's  shop."  The  consulate  was 
at  the  other  end  of  New  York,  and  was  closed  when 
Aldo  got  there.  When  he  returned,  harassed  and 
haggard,  I  had  made  friends  with  the  baker's  wife. 
She  was  German.  I  told  her  our  History  of  the  Wolf 
—  that  I  was  a  poetess,  and  had  met  the  Queen,  and  all 
about  Monte  Carlo.  I  don't  think  she  believed  or  under- 
stood much,  but  she  was  sorry  for  me;  and  Anne-Marie? 
hearing  us  talk  German,  suddenly  started  piping: 
"  Schlaf,  Kindchen,  schlaf !  "  The  woman  caught  her  up 
in  her  arms,  and  said :  "  Ach,  du  susses !  How  does  she 
come  to  know  that  ?  "  And  she  took  us  all  to  28th  Street 
to  the  house  of  her  sister,  who  gave  us  this  room.  It  is 
clean,  and  the  woman  is  kind. 

And  now,  what  ? 

I  have  bought  myself  a  frightful  pepper-and-salt 
coloured  dress,  and  a  black  straw  hat.  I  look  like  a 
"  deserving  poor."  And  Anne-Marie  is  wearing  a  dark 
blue  woolly  horror  belonging  to  the  woman's  daughter. 


162  THE  DEVOURERS 


I 


RhA  m»«fc  "^*r  it,  or  Frau  Schmidl  would  be  offended. 
I  |Pran  Schmidts  the  only  friend  we  have  in  America. 

For  the  ranch  is  a  myth  of  Aldo's.  He  never  was  on  a 
ranch  in  his  life.  He  met  a  Frenchman  once  with  weak 
lungs,  who  had  been  in  Texas,  and  who  gave  him  all  the 
romantic  details  that  he  used  to  recount  to  us.  Do  you 
remember,  mother  ?  On  Lake  Maggiore  ?  He  talked 
vaguely,  and  not  much,  it  is  true,  of  those  bucking 
bronchoes  he  used  to  ride  across  the  sweeping  Western 
prairies,  feeling  the  wind  in  his  hair.  .  .  .  When  I 
reproach  him  for  his  fables,  he  tells  me  that  it  was  our 
fault.  We  insisted  upon  the  details.  We  would  hear 
all  about  it  !  He  says  Clarissa  started  the  ranch  legend, 
because  she  thought  it  sounded  well.  Then  she  left  him 
to  keep  it  up  as  best  he  could.  Poor  Aldo  !  He  hates 
us  in  these  clothes.  And  he  hates  the  German  things 
Frau  Schmidl  gives  us  to  eat.  He  has  gone  to  the 
Italian  Consul  for  the  third  time  to  see  if  he  can  find 
some  correspondence  to  do.  I  could  give  lessons,  but  it 
seems  that  there  are  many  more  people  who  want  to  give 
lessons  than  there  are  who  want  to  take  them.  And 
then  —  there  is  Anne-Marie,  who  has  to  be  taken  care  of. 
Anne-Marie  !  Frau  Schmidl  loves  her  because  of  her 
name.  She  says  it  is  edit  deutsch  !  She  is  a  stout,  fair 
woman,  who  speaks  English  strangely.  When  she 
enters  the  room,  she  says,  nodding  and  laughing,  "  Now, 
and  what  makes  the  Anne-Marie  ?  " 

The  Anne-Marie  likes  the  sound  of  the  language,  and 
imitates  her.  I  dread  to  think  what  English  the  Anne- 

Marie  will  learn. 

#  #  #  #  # 

Aldo  has  found  nothing  to  do.  The  Americans  will 
have  nothing  to  do  with  an  Italian,  and  Italians  will 


THE   DEVOURERS  163 

have  still  less  to  do  with  an  Italian.     We  have  eight 
dollars  left. 

*  *  *  *  * 

If  I  write  to  you  for  money  you  will  send  it.  And 
then?  A  few  weeks  hence  we  shall  be  where  we  are 
now.  We  must  fight  our  battles  alone. 

*  *  *  *  • 

We  have  nothing  left. 

Mr.  Schmidl  says  he  will  let  us  keep  the  room  —  "  for 
another  week  or  two,"  he  added  gruffly ;  but  his  wife 
is  not  to  feed  us.  "  At  least  —  not  all  of  you,"  he  added 
still  more  gruffly.  "  Only  you  —  and  the  Anne-Marie." 
He  is  a  poor  man.  He  is  quite  right.  But  what  about 
Aldo? 

***** 

We  have  sold  the  Monte  Carlo  clothes  for  twelve 
dollars.  We  feel  that  we  are  rehabilitated.  And  what 
have  I  been  dreaming  of  ?  I  can  write.  I  shall  send  an 
article  to  the  Giornale  Itcdo-Americano.  Unsigned,  of 
course.  I  shall  write  it  to-night. 

***** 

It  is  done. 

***** 

It  is  accepted. 

***** 

It  is  printed. 

It  seems  that  that  is  all.  They  have  told  Aldo  that 
they  never  pay  for  articles  that  are  sent  to  them  from 
the  outside  —  even  if  they  are  as  brilliant  and  original  as 
this  one.  They  only  pay  their  own  staff.  Have  they 
room  on  their  staff  for  a  brilliant  and  original  writer? 
Plenty  of  room.  But  no  money. 


164  THE  DEVOURERS 

Aldo  is  living  on  dates  and  a  little  rice.  He  speaks 
less  than  ever.  I  do  not  know  what  his  thoughts  are. 
I  am  afraid  for  him. 

To-day  as  I  was  taking  Anne-Marie  for  a  run  in  front 
of  the  house  I  met  a  man  whom  we  knew  in  Italy,  a  Dr. 
Fioretti.  He  was  an  old  friend  of  Nino's.  Do  you 
remember?  He  looked  at  me,  and  past  me,  blankly,  tin- 
recognizing.  I  thanked  the  fates.  My  knees  ached  with 
fear  lest  he  should  stop  and  say  :  "  You  here !  What  are 
you  doing  ?  Where  do  you  live  ?  "  Where  do  I  live  ?  In 
this  vile  street  near  the  negro  quarter.  What  am  I 
doing  ?  Starving.  Are  we  dreaming,  mother  ?  Oh, 
mother !  mother  !  when  did  I  fall  asleep  ?  I  should  like 
to  wake  up  a  little  girl  again  in  England.  Was  there  not 
another  little  girl  called  Edith,  with  yellow  hair? 
Surely  I  remember  her.  What  became  of  her?  .  .  . 
Or  was  she  the  girl  who  died  ?  .  .  . 

*  *  *  *  * 

Aldo  will  not  leave  the  house  any  more.  He  will  not 
speak  to  us  any  more.  He  sits  and  stares  at  us.  I  am 
afraid  of  him.  I  shall  telegraph  to  you  if  I  can  find  the 
money  to  do  so.  Mrs.  Schmidl  keeps  Anne-Marie 
downstairs  in  her  kitchen.  But  she  is  afraid  of  Aldo,  too. 
I  think  they  will  turn  us  out.  But  they  will  keep  the 
child,  and  take  care  of  her. 

I  shall  go  out.  I  shall  ask  everybody,  anybody,  to 
help  me.  .  .  . 

*  *  *  *  * 

I  have  been  to  the  Italian  Church,  to  the  Italian 
Consul,  to  the  Italian  Embassy.  They  will  see.  They 
will  do  what  they  can.  There  are  many  pitiable  cases. 
Are  we  a  "  pitiable  case "  ?  How  strange !  They 
would  not  give  me  any  money  to  send  a  telegram.  They 


THE   DEVOURERS  165 

said  they  would  telegraph  themselves,  after  they  had 
come  to  see  us,  and  made  inquiries.  .  .  . 

I  stopped  a  woman  in  the  street,  and  said,  "I  beg 

your  pardon.  Will  you "  and  then  my  courage 

failed  and  I  asked  where  West  28th  Street  was.  She 
directed  me,  and  I  turned  back  and  walked  in  the 
direction  I  had  come  from. 

I  came  to  Fifth  Avenue,  and  walked  up  it  in  my 
shabby  clothes.  I  passed  rows  of  large  houses.  One  of 
them  had  the  windows  open,  and  someone  inside  was 
playing  "  Der  Musikant"  of  Hugo  Wolff.  And  a 
woman's  voice  was  singing  : 

"  Wenn  wir  zwei  zusammen  waren 
Wlird1  das  Singen  mir  vergeh'n." 

I  stopped.  I  turned  back,  and  walked  up  the  wide 
stone  steps.  I  rang  the  visitors'  bell,  and  a  manservant 
in  ornate  livery  opened  at  once. 

"  I  wish  to  speak  to  the  lady  who  is  singing,"  I  said. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  man.  I  knew  he  thought  me  a  beggar, 
and  was  going  to  send  me  away. 

"Tell  her  —  tell  her  quickly,"  I  said,  "that  — that 
Hugo  Wolff  told  me  I  might  come." 

Something  in  my  face  —  oh,  my  despairing  face, 
mother!  —  touched  something  human  in  the  pompous 
automaton.  He  went  straight  into  the  drawing-room 
and  gave  my  message.  There  was  a  basket  of  Easter 
lilies  on  the  hall-table. 

The  music  stopped,  and  almost  at  once  on  the  thres- 
hold of  the  drawing-room  a  lady  appeared.  She  was 
young  —  hardly  older  than  I  —  and  beautiful,  dressed  in 
soft  mauve  cloth.  She  looked  at  me  curiously,  and  then 
said  suddenly : 


166  THE  DEVOURERS 

"  Will  you  come  in  ?  " 

I  went  into  the  large,  luxurious  drawing-room. 
Titian's  "Bella"  looked  down  at  me  blandly  with  her 
reddened  eyelids. 

"  What  message  was  that  you  sent  ?  "  she  asked,  with 
her  graceful  head  on  one  side. 

My  voice  had  almost  left  me.  "I  said  Hugo  Wolff  told 
me  to  come  in.  I  heard  you  singing  <  Der  Musikant '.  .  . " 

She  laughed,  and  said :  "Are  you  a  musician  ?  " 

I  said:     "No."     And  I  thought  of  telling  her  the 

History  of  the  Wolf.     But  I  feared  she  might  know  my 

&-*  name,  and  tell  the  Italians  in  New  York.     And  the 

Italo-Americano  would  print  an  article   about  it  —  and 

the  Corriere  della  Sera  in  Milan  would  reprint  it.  ... 

"  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you  ?  "  she  said. 

I  nodded. 

"  Money  ?  "  she  asked  softly. 

I  nodded. 

"  How  much  do  you  need  ?  " 

"  Five  dollars,"  I  said. 

She  smiled,  and  said:  "Is  that  all?  I  should 
willingly  do  more  for  a  friend  of  Hugo  Wolff's  !  " 

She  went  out  of  the  room,  and  closed  the  door  behind 
her.  She  left  me  in  my  shabby  clothes,  in  my  black 
straw  hat  and  my  need  of  five  dollars,  in  her  gorgeous 
drawing-room,  scattered  with  priceless  ornaments  in 
silver  and  gold,  jewelled  frames  and  trinkets  lying  all 
about  the  tables.  I  covered  my  face  with  my  hands,  and 
the  tears  rolled  through  my  fingers.  She  came  back  a 
few  minutes  afterwards  with  a  gold  twenty-dollar  piece 
in  her  hand.  She  gave  it  to  me,  and  said,  "  For  luck  ! " 
and  added : 

"  Is  there  nothing  else  I  can  do  ?  " 


THE  DEVOURERS  167 

I  nodded,  with  my  eyes  full  of  tears.  "  Yes  ! "  and  I 
looked  at  the  piano. 

She  smiled  and  sat  down.  She  sang  for  me.  I  know 
she  sang  her  very  best.  She  had  a  lovely  voice. 

When  I  went  through  the  hall  to  the  door  two  men- 
servants  bowed  me  out  as  if  I  were  a  princess.  And  I 
went  down  the  stairs  weeping  bitterly. 

I  went  along  the  street,  crying  and  not  caring  who 
saw  me.  Then  I  sat  down  in  Madison  Square.  Sud- 
denly someone  came  and  sat  beside  me.  A  woman.  I 
felt  her  eyes  fixed  on  me  for  a  long  time,  and  I  turned  and 
looked  at  her.  There,  under  a  turquoise  toque,  sat  the 
golden  hair  and  the  large  face  of  the  prairie  chicken. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Doyle  ?  "  I  said. 

"  What  ?  "  She  turned  quickly.  "  How  do  you  know 
my  name  ? "  And  she  added,  frowning :  "  What  are 
you  crying  for?" 

"  For  love  of  a  woman  who  has  been  kind  to  me,"  I  said. 

"  There  are  lots  of  kind  women,"  she  answered.  "  I'm 
kind.  What  do  you  want  ?  " 

"I  want  you  to  come  and  talk  to  my  husband,"  I  said. 
"You  know  him.  You  met  him  in  Monte  Carlo.  His 
name  is  Aldo  della  Rocca." 

"What?  Della  Rocca?  That  lovely  Italian  crea- 
ture ?  That  Apollo  of  Belvedere  ?  Of  course  I  re- 
member him.  Where  is  he  ?  What  is  he  doing  here  ?  " 

"  Come  and  see,"  I  said. 

And  she  came  up  to  Mrs.  SchmidTs  house  in  28th 
Street. 

That  evening  we  dined  with  the  prairie  chicken,  or 
rather,  she  invited  herself  to  dine  with  us.  She  said 
"  Poison ! "  when  she  tasted  the  Knodelsuppe,  and 
"Poison!"  when  she  tasted  the  Blutwurst  and  Kraut. 


168  THE  DEVOURERS 

i 

She  is  probably  a  very  great  lady,  judging  by  her  bad 
behaviour. 

In  my  heart  hope  opens  timid  eyes. 

***** 


VII 

MRS.  DOYLE  was  a  very  great  lady.  Her  husband  had 
been  a  political  "  boss " ;  her  sister  had  married  an 
English  baronet;  and  her  daughter,  Marge,  eighteen 
years  old,  "  a  mere  infant,"  as  she  said,  had  married 
Herbert  van  Osten,  the  Congressman. 

She  was  full  of  good  ideas.  "  Now,  you  two  might  be 
the  rage  of  New  York  in  no  time,"  she  said,  at  the  end  of 
the  dinner.  "  You  are  a  Count,  aren't  you  ?  "  And  she 
looked  confidently  at  Aldo.  "'Delia  RoccaM  That 
sounds  like  a  Count." 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Aldo,  with  his  shining  white  smile, 
humorously  remembering  his  grandfather's  name,  "  Es- 
posito,"  which  means  a  foundling,  and  the  "  Delia 
Rocca  "  added  to  it  because  the  little  Esposito  had  been 
left  on  a  rock  near  Posilippo. 

"  Well,  let  me  see.  You  must  have  an  atelier  of  some 

kind.  Ateliers  are  all  the  rage.  And  your  wife " 

Mrs.  Doyle  raised  her  sepia  eyebrows  and  pinched  her 
large  chin  pensively. 

"  My  wife  is  a  great  poetess,"  said  Aldo. 

"Is  she?"  said  Mrs.  Doyle.  "Well  —  let  me  see. 
She  must  —  she  must  dress  a  little  differently  —  red 
scarves  and  things  —  and  look  picturesque,  and  read  her 
poems  in  salons  here.  Poetry  is  all  the  rage.  And  if 
it  is  Eyetalian,  you  know,"  she  added  encouragingly  to 
Nancy,  "no  one  will  understand  it.  I  shall  discover 


THE   DEVOURERS  169 

you.  I  shall  give  an  At  Home.  '  Eyetalian  poetry '  in 
a  corner  of  the  cards.  That's  an  elegant  idea! " 

But  Nancy  was  refractory.  She  said  she  would  not 
wear  red  scarves,  nor  recite  her  poetry ;  and  what  was 
Aldo  going  to  do  in  an  atelier  ? 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Doyle,  "  faces  like  his  are 
not  met  with  every  day  on  Broadway.  I  don't  know 
how  it  is  in  your  country,  but  his  looks  alone  are  enough 
to  make  him  the  rage  here." 

Aldo  nodded,  looking  at  Nancy  as  if  to  say :  "  You  see  ?  " 

"  But  what  is  the  good  of  being  the  rage  if  one  has 
nothing  to  live  on  ?  What  are  we  to  eat  ?  "  asked  Nancy, 
feeling  brutal  and  unlovely,  and  terre  d  terre. 

"Oh,  my  dear!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Doyle.  "If  once 
you  are  the  rage  in  a  place  like  New  York ! "  .  .  .  And 
she  raised  her  round  blue  eyes  to  Frau  Schmidl's  ceiling, 
where  languid  flies  walked  slowly. 

But  Nancy  assured  her  that  it  was  impossible.  Could 
she  not  find  some  work  for  Aldo  to  do  ? 

"What  work?"  said  Mrs.  Doyle,  resting  an  absent- 
minded  blue  gaze  on  the  lustrous  convolutions  of  Aide's 
hair,  on  his  white,  narrow  forehead,  on  his  intense  and 
violent  eyes,  and  the  scarlet  arcuation  of  his  vivid  lips. 
"  What  work  can  he  do  ?  " 

"  Oh ! "  Nancy  said  vaguely,  "  what  work  do  men 
do  ?  He  has  been  to  the  University  and  taken  a  degree. 
He  has  studied  law,  but  has  not  practised.  I  am  sure 
he  could  do  anything.  He  is  very  clever." 

"Oh  yes,"  assented  Mrs.  Doyle  dreamily. 

She  was  thinking.  She  was  thinking  of  something 
her  married  daughter  had  been  saying  to  her  that  very 
morning.  Suddenly,  she  got  up  and  said  good-bye. 
She  let  Aldo  help  her  into  her  long  turquoise  coat,  and 


170  THE   DEVOURERS 

find  her  gloves;  and  then  she  sent  him  off  to  fetch  a 
motor-cab.  Alone  with  Nancy,  she  was  about  to  open 
her  large  silver-net  reticule  when  she  saw  Nancy's 
straight  gaze  fixed  upon  her.  So  she  refrained,  and 
kissed  her  instead. 

"  Ta-ta,  Apollo,"  she  said,  shaking  a  fat,  white-gloved 
hand  out  of  the  carriage  window  to  Aldo,  who  stood  on 
the  side-walk,  bare-headed  and  deferential.  Then,  lean- 
ing back  as  the  carriage  slid  along  7th  Avenue  and 
turned  into  66th  Street,  she  mused  :  "  He  will  do  —  he 
will  do  elegantly.  Won't  Marge  be  delighted!  That 
will  teach  Bertie  to  sit  up.  Elegant  idea  !  Bertie  will 
have  to  sit  up." 

Bertie  was  not  sitting  up.  His  wife,  Mrs.  Doyle's 
daughter,  was.  And  very  straight  she  sat,  with  defiant, 
frizzy  head  and  narrow  lips,  when  she  heard  the  front 
door  open  and  close.  But  it  was  not  to  her  husband's 
insubordinate  footsteps.  It  was  the  indulgent  swish  of 
her  mother's  silken  skirts  that  rustled  slowly  upwards. 

Bertie's  wife  sprang  up  and  opened  the  door. 

" '  Mum '  ?    At  this  hour  ?    What  has  happened  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  Marge  —  nothing.  Is  Bertie  at  home  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Doyle. 

"  No,"  and  the  young  pink  lips  narrowed  again.  "  It 
is  only  eleven  o'clock  at  night.  Why  should  he  be  at 
home?" 

"Marge,  I  have  an  elegant  idea,"  said  Mrs.  Doyle, 
seating  herself  resolutely  in  an  armchair  opposite  her 
daughter.  "  I  have  found  the  very  thing  we  need.  The 
bo  ideel,  my  lambkin." 

When  Mrs.  Doyle  rose  to  go  at  midnight  they  were 
both  wreathed  in  smiles. 


X  (frtio* 

THE   DEVOUREKS  171 

"  You  will  have  to  be  very  careful,  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Doyle.  "  Don't  be  rash,  and  unlikely,  and  over-generous. 
The  wife  is  a  stubborn  creature  who  spells  things  with  a 
capital  letter:  you  know  what  I  mean — Work  and  Art 
and  Dignity,  and  all  that  kind  of  thing.  She  must  not 
be  rubbed  up  the  wrong  way.  Besides,  it  will  answer 
just  as  well  if  he  does  not  know  what  he  is  doing." 

"  That's  so,"  said  her  daughter.  "  Mum,  you're  a 
daisy." 

The  unsuspecting  Bertie  came  home  that  night  a  little 
before  one  o'clock,  keyed  up  for  the  usual  withering 
sarcasm  and  darkling  reproach.  He  found  his  wife 
asleep,  lamb-like  and  dove-like,  her  frizzy  head  foundered 
contentedly  in  the  pillows,  a  book  of  Gyp  on  the  coverlet, 
and  a  mild  smile  — was  it  of  indulgence  or  of  treason  ?  — 
playing  on  her  soft  half-open  lips. 

The  next  day  Mrs.  Doyle  called  on  Aldo  and  Nancy. 
Anne-Marie  was  introduced  and  patted  on  the  head,  and 
sent  down  into  the  kitchen. 

"  I  have  a  secretaryship  for  you,"  said  Mrs.  Doyle  to 
Aldo.  "  You  can  start  at  once.  Twenty  dollars  a  week. 
They  won't  give  more." 

Aldo  was  graciously  complacent,  and  Nancy  looked 
anxious. 

"  His  English  is  very  imperfect,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  the  English  is  chiefly  copying ;  he  can  do  that, 
can't  he  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  said  Aldo,  frowning  at  Nancy. 

Nancy  asked  for  particulars,  and  Mrs.  Doyle  folded  her 
fat  hands  and  gave  them.  It  was  a  confidential  post. 
He  was  to  be  "secretary  to  her  daughter" — catching 
Nancy's  steady  grey  eye,  Mrs.  Doyle  added  —  "'s  hus- 
band, Mr.  Van  Osten ; "  and  the  work  was  chiefly  of  a 


172  THE   DEVOURERS 

political  character.  He  would  have  to  —  er  —  copy 
speeches,  and  .  .  .  etcetera.  He  would  have  a  study, 
not  in  the  Van  Osten's  house,  but  —  er — in  the  same 
street  a  few  doors  off,  opposite.  He  was  not  to  talk 
about  his  work,  because  it  was  of  a  very  — er  —  private 
character. 

"Mr.  Van  Osten  is  a  peculiar  man,"  added  Mrs. 
Doyle.  "But  you  will  understand  all  that  in  time, 
when  you  get  to  know  him.  When  can  you  start  ?  " 

"  Now,"  said  Aldo. 

Mrs.  Doyle  laughed.  "  Well,  I  think  next  Monday 
will  do.  Meanwhile  "  —  and  she  coughed  —  "  the  Van 
Ostens  are  very  —  oh,  very  much  for  appearance,  you 
know.  You  had  better  go  to  Brooks  and  get  him  to  rig 
you  out.  I  shall  drive  round  and  speak  to  Brooks  about 
you  at  once." 

Nancy  flushed  and  protested.  "  You  can  pay  it  back 
to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Doyle.  "  Don't  bother  me  so." 

So  Nancy  flushed,  and  was  silent;  and  Aldo  went  to 
Brooks,  and  was  rigged  out. 

He  also  had  some  visiting-cards  with  "Count  Aldo 
della  Rocca"  printed  on  them,  but  not  his  address, 
which  was  near  the  nigger  quarter,  and  probably  would 
continue  to  be  so  for  a  long  time  to  come. 

On  the  following  Monday,  at  half-past  eleven,  he 
arrived  at  the  Van  Osten  house  in  66th  Street.  Mrs. 
Doyle  had  particularly  impressed  upon  him  that  he  was 
not  to  come  earlier  than  half-past  eleven.  Mrs.  Doyle 
was  waiting  for  him  in  the  drawing-room,  and  introduced 
him  to  her  daughter.  Mr.  Van  Osten  was  not  in.  The 
Count  was  to  do  his  work  alone  for  these  first  few  days, 
as  Mr.  Van  Osten  was  very  busy  in  Washington.  The 
two  ladies  had  their  hats  on,  and  accompanied  him 


THE  DEVOUREKS  173 

across  the  street  to  No.  59.  They  had  a  latchkey  which 
they  gave  to  him,  and  went  with  him  to  the  room  that 
was  to  be  his  study  on  the  top-floor.  It  was  a  large, 
light,  almost  empty,  room.  A  wide  desk  stood  in  front 
of  the  window ;  there  were  a  few  chairs  and  tables,  and 
a  half-empty  bookcase.  On  the  desk  was  a  pile  of 
papers,  newspapers,  and  manuscripts.  A  typewriting 
machine  stood  on  the  table. 

"  Oh,"  said  Aldo  blankly,  "  I  do  not  know  how  to  use  a 
typewriter." 

"  Never  mind,"  said  the  ladies  in  unison. 

"  We  put  it  there  in  case  you  could,"  said  Mrs.  Doyle. 

Then  Mrs.  Doyle  showed  him  his  work.  "  All  this  has 
to  be  copied,"  she  said,  showing  him  the  tidy  manuscript 
sheets.  "And  then  you  ought  to  make  extracts  from 
these  papers." 

She  pointed  to  the  newspapers  —  they  were  of  the  pre- 
ceding week.  He  was  to  mark  and  cut  out  everything 
referring  to  the  Congo,  and  underline  with  red  ink  Mr. 
Van  Osten's  name  every  time  he  came  across  it. 

"And  everything  that  Mr.  Van  Osten  himself  says 
has  to  be  copied  in  this  large  book." 

"Would  it  not  be  better  to  cut  out  the  speeches  in 
print  and  paste  them  in  ?  "  said  Aldo. 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Mrs.  Doyle.  "  He  wants  them  copied. 
Doesn't  he,  Marjorie  ?  " 

Her  daughter  turned  from  the  window  and  said  : 

"  Oh  yes  ! "  She  had  flittering  green  eyes  and  a  funny 
smile.  Her  frizzy,  light  hair  came  down  to  the  bridge  of 
her  small  freckled  nose,  and  she  had  a  manner  of  throwing 
back  her  head  in  order  to  look  from  under  her  hair  that 
was  peculiar  to  her.  She  was  dressed  like  an  expensive 
French  doll. 


174  THE  DEVOURERS 

"  Oh  yes,"  she  repeated,  with  her  head  thrown  back, 
and  in  her  high  childish  voice.  "  I  guess  he  wants  it  all 
copied."  Her  smile  flickered,  and  she  turned  to  the 
window  again. 

The  ladies  left  him,  and  he  sat  down  to  work.  He 
copied  steadily  in  his  beautiful  commis  voyageur  hand- 
writing until  two  o'clock.  Then  he  went  out  and  had 
a  hasty  lunch.  At  four  o'clock  Mrs.  Doyle  rustled  in 
and  asked  him  how  he  was  getting  on.  He  was  getting 
on  splendidly.  At  six  he  went  home. 

This  went  on  for  three  days,  and  on  Wednesday  after- 
noon he  had  nothing  left  to  copy,  or  to  cut  out,  or  to 
paste  in.  He  looked  out  of  the  window.  He  took  a  book 
from  the  book-case  —  they  were  almost  all  French  novels. 
After  reading  an  hour,  he  decided  to  go  across  to  No.  8, 
the  Van  Ostens'  house,  and  ask  for  instructions.  He 
had  not  yet  seen  his  employer,  and,  as  all  men  who  are 
sure  of  their  tailor  and  their  physique,  he  liked  new 
acquaintances. 

The  butler  who  opened  the  door  looked  at  his  clothes, 
then  took  his  hat,  and  divested  him  of  his  overcoat. 
He  presented  a  silver  tray,  on  which  Aldo,  after  a 
moment's  hesitation,  deposited  his  visiting-card.  The 
man  looked  at  it,  opened  the  drawing-room  door,  and 
pronounced :  "  Count  Aldo  della  Rocca."  A  subdued 
sound  of  voices  and  tea-cups  subsided  into  silence,  and 
Aldo  entered  the  room. 

He  bowed  low,  his  secretary  bow,  standing  at  the  door, 
for  he  did  not  want  to  offend  his  employers.  When  he 
raised  his  head,  Mrs.  Van  Osten's  light  green  flitter  of  a 
smile  was  greeting  him  from  the  sofa.  His  quick  eye 
saw  that  she  was  nervous.  She  put  out  her  hand  and 
said: 


THE  DEVOURERS  175 

"  Oh,  Count  della  Rocca,  how  do  you  do  ?  Just  in 
time  for  a  cup  of  tea." 

He  stepped  past  the  four  or  five  ladies  and  an  old 
gentleman  who  sat  near  her,  and  kissed  her  hand  in 
Southern  fashion.  He  was  not  to  be  the  secretary? 
Benissimo  !  He  was  not  the  secretary.  He  was  the  Count. 

"But  perhaps,"  continued  his  hostess,  "you  don't 
like  tea  ?  Vermouth  or  Campari  is  what  you  take  in 
your  country  at  this  hour,  is  it  not  ?  "  And  she  held  out 
a  cup  of  tea  to  him,  with  her  head  thrown  back  and 
slightly  on  one  side. 

"  Oh,  Madame  !  All  what  is  taken  from  so  fair  a  lady's 
hand  is  nectar  ! "  said  Aldo,  with  his  best  smile ;  and  the 
ladies  tittered  approval. 

"  Ah,  Latin  flattery,  Count,"  said  his  hostess,  and 
introduced  him  to  her  friends. 

Once  or  twice  he  noticed  that  she  glanced  anxiously 
at  him,  as  if  dreading  what  he  might  do  or  say ;  but 
Aldo,  remembering  the  political  and  private  character 
of  his  work,  did  not  mention  it.  The  ladies  left  one  by 
one.  And  the  old  gentleman  left.  Then  Mrs.  Van  Osten 
turned  her  little  dry,  hard  face  to  Aldo. 

"  Why  did  you  come  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  have  finished  my  work,"  said  Aldo,  feeling  him- 
self very  much  the  secretary  again.  "  I  knew  not  what 
I  was  to  do." 

"  Oh,  I  see.  I  will  tell  my  mother  —  I  mean  my  hus- 
band—  about  it."  And  at  this  moment  Mrs.  Doyle 
entered.  Her  daughter  drew  her  to  the  window,  and 
spoke  to  her  in  a  whisper  for  some  time.  Mrs.  Doyle 
replied :  "  Oh,  all  the  better.  I  did  not  know  how  we 
should  ever  begin  it."  She  turned  to  Aldo,  standing 
stiff  and  secretarial  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 


176  THE   DEVOURERS 

"  I  am  glad  you  took  Mrs.  Van  Osten's  cue,"  she  said. 
Aldo  wondered  what  "cue"  meant,  but  did  not  ask. 
"  Do  so,  always.  It  is  of  the  greatest  importance.  And 
now  about  Mr.  Van  Osten.  Never  speak  to  him  about 
your  work.  He  does  not  like  it.  Unless  he  mentions  it 
to  you,  never  speak  about  it  at  all.  Let  him  see  that 
you  are  absolutely  discreet.  Now  you  may  stay  till  he 
comes." 

He  stayed  and  made  flat  general  conversation.  Mrs. 
Van  Osten  looked  bored.  Mrs.  Doyle  answered  him 
nervously  and  absentmindedly. 

The  bell  rang  loud,  and  the  butler  opened  the  hall-door 
to  admit  his  master.  Aldo  stood  up.  Suddenly  he  felt 
a  hand  on  his  sleeve.  It  was  little  Mrs.  Van  Osten's 
jewelled  hand  that  pulled  him  down  into  his  chair.  She 
leaned  forward,  with  her  chin  on  her  hand,  and  smiled. 

"  I  am  sure  you  are  musical,"  she  said,  smiling  into 
his  eyes,  as  through  the  open  door  Mr.  Van  Osten  entered, 
large,  leisurely,  and  good-looking. 

"  Hulloa !  "  he  said  to  his  wife.  "  Well,  mother  ?  "  to 
Mrs.  Doyle.  Then  he  looked  at  Aldo,  who  very  slowly, 
wondering  what  he  was  to  do,  got  up  from  his  seat. 

"  Bertie,"  said  his  wife,  looking  up  at  him  with  a  look 
that  was  at  once  the  look  of  a  cat  and  of  a  mouse,  "  this 
is  Count  della  Rocca  whom  I  was  telling  you  about." 

Van  Osten  put  out  his  large  hand.  "Glad  to  meet 
you,"  he  said.  Then  Mrs.  Doyle  sat  down  and  talked 
to  him. 

"  You  are  musical  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Van  Osten,  lifting  her 
small  chin,  and  twinkling  her  eyes  at  Aldo. 

Aldo  suddenly  remembered  what  Dr.  Fioretti,  a  friend 
of  Nino's  who  had  travelled  in  England  and  the  United 
States,  used  to  say  about  American  women.  He  seemed 


THE   DEVOURERS  177 

to  hear  Fioretti  speaking  in  his  impressive  manner,  as  if 
each  word  he  said  were  three  times  underlined :  "  I  teli 
you  this  about  the  American  woman:  as  man  and  as 
doctor,  my  dear  friend  .  .  ."  And  Aldo  decided  that 
Fioretti  was  right. 

He  found  himself  seated  at  the  piano,  while  his  host- 
ess's tiny  figure  was  thrown  forward  listening  to  him 
with  rapt  attention.  Suddenly  —  while  her  husband  was 
laughing  loud  at  something  Mrs.  Doyle  had  said  —  she 
put  out  her  hand  and  said :  "  Good-bye.  Come  next 
Saturday.  Now  go.  Go  quick."  And  he  rose  and  took 
his  leave. 

He  described  his  visit  to  Nancy,  who  was  so  much 
astonished  that  he  thought  it  wise  to  omit  the  reference 
to  next  Saturday.  On  the  following  morning  another 
pile  of  papers  lay  on  the  desk  for  him,  and  he  worked  on 
conscientiously.  On  Saturday  a  mauve  envelope  con- 
taining twenty  dollars  was  placed  on  the  top  of  his 
papers ;  and  on  a  slip  of  paper  was  written :  "  Come  at 
six." 

At  six  he  went  to  No.  8,  and  found  Mrs.  Van  Osten 
alone.  She  scarcely  spoke  to  him  until  her  husband  came 
in.  Then  she  seemed  suddenly  to  wake  up,  and  was  all 
smiles  and  pretty  gestures ;  when  Aldo  spoke  to  her  she 
drooped  her  lashes  and  played  with  her  long  chiffon  scarf. 
He  left  her  a  little  later,  feeling  dense  and  bewildered. 

A  fortnight  afterwards  he  was  invited  to  dinner. 
"  I  am  sure  Van  Osten  feels  that  he  can  trust  me  now," 
said  Aldo  to  Nancy,  adjusting  a  faultless  tie  at  the 
summit  of  an  impeccable  shirt-front.  "And  to-day  he 
will  probably  speak  to  me  of  our  work." 

"  I  am  afraid  Anne-Marie  is  going  to  have  measles," 
said  Nancy,  sitting  drearily  on  the  old  green  armchair, 


178  THE   DEVOUKERS 

while  Anne-Marie  pulled  some  of  the  stuffing  out  of  it 
with  languid  feverish  hand.  "Seventh  Avenue  is  full 
of  it." 

"  It  is  a  beastly  neighbourhood,"  said  Aldo,  buttoning 
his  waistcoat,  and  fixing  a  sham  gold  chain  into  his 
watch-pocket  with  a  safety-pin.  "  We  must  get  out  of  it 
as  soon  as  we  can." 

"Did  those  people  you  met  at  Mrs.  Van  Osten's  ask 
where  we  lived  ?  "  asked  Nancy. 

"Yes.  And  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  I  said 
Number  59  in  the  same  street.  That  is  where  the  office 
is,  you  know.  I  hope  they  won't  make  inquiries." 

Nancy  sighed.  Aldo  kissed  her,  and  carefully  patted 
Anne-Marie,  who  had  dirty  hands  and  a  tearful  face. 
Then  he  ran  down  and  got  on  a  car  that  took  him  up 
town. 

No  reference  was  made  during  dinner  to  politics  or  to 
the  work.  There  were  a  dozen  people  present,  and  once 
—  to  try  him,  Aldo  felt  it!  —  his  host  said,  looking 
straight  at  him  :  "  And  what  are  you  doing  in  New  York, 
Mr.  Delia  Eocca  ?  " 

With  the  corner  of  his  eye  Aldo  had  seen  Mrs.  Van 
Osten's  small  head  start  up  like  a  disturbed  snake  at 
the  end  of  the  table.  He  answered  imperturbably, 
looking  Van  Osten  in  the  face : 

"Some  literary  work.     I  find  it  very  interesting.'" 

He  said  this  markedly,  and  Van  Osten  only  said: 
"Oh,  indeed?"  But  Aldo  knew  that  he  was  pleased. 
Van  Osten  must  now  indeed  feel  that  Aldo  was  absolutely 
discreet  and  intelligent. 

After  dinner,  when  the  men  joined  the  ladies  in  the 
drawing-room,  Mrs.  Van  Osten  called  him  to  her  with 
her  eyes.  He  sat  down  at  her  side,  and  talked  about 


THE  DEVOUKERS  179 

Italy.  She  drooped  her  head  as  if  she  were  blushing, 
and  he  wondered  why.  He  glanced  round,  and  saw  that 
her  husband  was  looking  at  her. 

A  tall  thin  woman  stood  near  him,  and  Aldo  heard  her 
say  :  "  What  a  splendid-looking  man !  Quite  like  that 
Somebody's  Hyperion  in  that  —  er — what-do-you-call-it 
gallery." 

"  Yes,"  said  Van  Osten.  "  Nice  sleek  animal."  And 
he  continued  to  look  at  his  wife. 

To  Aldo's  astonishment,  she  suddenly  smiled  and  put 
her  hand  into  his  own,  palm  upwards.  He  felt  the  little 
chilly  hand  trembling  lightly  on  his.  Her  words  were  as 
astonishing  as  her  gesture.  She  said : 

"  Well,  then,  Count  Aldo,  if  you  insist,  tell  my  fortune." 

He  had  not  insisted  ;  but  he  told  her  fortune,  following 
the  little  crinkly  lines  in  her  palm  with  the  light  touch  of 
his  forefinger.  She  shivered  and  she  laughed,  and  she 
threw  her  head  back. 

Van  Osten  sauntered  up  to  them  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets ;  he  looked  large  and  powerful.  Aldo  felt  like  a 
fool,  with  the  little  chilly  hand  still  lying  in  his.  He 
went  on,  however  :  "  This  is  the  line  of  the  intellect  —  " 
Van  Osten  laid  his  hand  casually  on  his  wife's  slim 
shoulder,  and  kept  it  there.  She  glanced  up  at  him,  and 
again  in  her  eyes  was  the  look  of  a  cat,  and  also  of  a 
mouse. 

"...  That  is  what  I  read  in  this  hand,"  continued 
Aldo. 

Van  Osten  moved  and  put  forward  a  large  patent- 
leather  shoe.  "  And  what  is  it  you  read  in  this  foot  ?  " 
he  said.  "  Kicks  ?  " 

His  wife  burst  into  a  ripple  of  laughter  and  withdrew 
her  hand  from  Aldo's.  Aldo  also  was  much  amused. 


180  THE  DEVOURERS 

The  only  one  who  did  not  seem  to  find  the  joke  funny 
was  Van  Osten  himself. 

A  few  days  later  in  the  study,  when  Aldo  had  copied 
four  columns  out  of  a  newspaper,  he  leaned  back  in  his 
chair.  He  was  irritated  and  tired.  There  was  not  enough 
ink  in  the  inkstand,  and  he  had  to  dip  in  his  pen  at  every 
second  word.  He  felt  exasperated  and  on  edge.  Little 
Mrs.  Van  Osten  was  getting  on  his  nerves.  What  did 
she  mean  ?  What  did  she  want  ?  She  was  in  love  with 
him,  of  course.  That  was  not  surprising.  But  what 
was  surprising  was  .  her  behaviour  when  they  were 
\/j  alone.  Either  she  left  the  room  at  once,  or  she  looked  at 
him  with  green,  far-away,  wintry  eyes  as  if  he  were  a 
wall  or  a  window. 

The  night  after  the  dinner-party  he  had  been  greatly 
agitated.  This  woman  loved  him.  This  very  wealthy 
,  woman  seemed  to  be  willing  to  compromise  herself  for 
j|  his  sake.  What  should  he  do?  For  a  moment  the 
j  j  thought  of  running  away  with  her  crossed  his  mind.  She 
was  a  plain  little  thing,  but  enormously  rich.  He  might 
be  able  to  be  of  more  solid  use  to  Nancy  and  his  child  by 
•  such  a  step  than  by  slaving  for  them  thirty  years  at 
twenty  dollars  a  week.  In  a  year  perhaps,  he  might  be 
able  to  return  to  Nancy,  comfortably  well  off.  These 
erratic  American  women  were  extravagant  and  generous, 
he  knew. 

He  had  walked  home  that  night  with  his  head  in  the 
clouds,  dreaming  of  automobile  trips  across  Europe,  of 
staying  at  the  best  hotels  and  not  paying  any  bills.  He 
had  found  Frau  Schmidl  awake,  and  Nancy  in  tears,  and 
Anne-Marie  with  the  measles.  He  had  stayed  at  home 
three  days,  sitting  in  the  darkened,  stuffy  little  room, 
heating  malted  milk  and  Nestle's  food  on  a  spirit-lamp, 


THE   DEVOURERS  181 

and  singing  arias  from  grand  operas  to  Anne-Marie,  who 
liked  nothing  else. 

When  he  had  gone  back  to  the  room  in  66th  Street 
nobody  had  been  to  ask  after  him,  and  his  work  lay  as  he 
had  left  it.  He  had  gone  across  to  the  Van  Osten's 
house,  and  had  heard  Mrs.  Van  Osten  say  in  a  high 
treble  voice  :  "  I  am  not  at  home."  And  he  had  felt  she 
was  looking  at  him  behind  the  curtains  as  he  crossed  the 
road. 

He  dipped  his  pen  in  the  half-empty  inkstand,  and 
then  impatiently  leaned  it  up  against  a  pen-box.  It  fell 
over,  and  was  emptier  than  before.  He  looked  round  the 
room  for  an  ink-bottle.  He  thought  of  ringing  the  bell, 
but  the  old  servant  that  appeared  on  the  rare  occasions 
when  he  wanted  her,  had,  after  the  first  week,  looked  so 
ill-tempered  that  he  dreaded  asking  for  anything.  He 
looked  about,  and  opened  drawers  and  closets.  In  a 
cupboard  in  the  wall,  on  the  top  shelf,  pushed  far  back, 
he  saw  a  packet  of  papers  which  he  seemed  to  recognize. 
He  pulled  them  out  and  looked.  It  was  his  work  of  the 
week  before  — 182  pages,  neatly  written.  What  were 
they  doing  up  there  ? 

He  gazed  at  them  for  a  long  time ;  then  he  put  them 
back.  He  resolved  to  make  an  experiment.  He  rang 
the  bell,  and  asked  the  untipped  and  unamiable  old 
servant  to  bring  him  some  ink. 

When  he  had  a  full  inkstand  before  him,  he  dipped  in 
his  pen  and  wrote :  "  The  debate  concluded  with  the 
usual  majority  for  the  Government.  La  donna  e  mobile 
qual  piuma  al  vento.  I  wonder  whether  anyone  will 
notice  that  I  am  writing  rubbish.  Sul  mare  luccica 
1'astro  d'argento  Santa  Lucia,  Santa  Lucia." 

He  finished  the  page,  and  put  it  on  the  others.     Then 


182  THE   DEVOUKERS 

he  smoked  cigarettes,  and  read  "  Autour  du  Mariage  " 
until  it  was  lunch-time.  While  he  was  at  lunch  a  note 
was  left  for  him. 

"  Come  this  evening  at  eight,  sharp." 

His  finished  sheets  had  been  taken  away  as  usual,  and 
a  new  pile  placed  on  the  desk  for  him  to  copy.  He  went 
to  the  cupboard  in  the  wall,  and  looked  on  the  top  shelf. 
Yes ;  the  pile  of  papers  at  the  back  was  larger.  He 
pulled  it  out ;  on  the  top  lay  the  page  with  the  jumble 
of  Italian  words  on  it.  He  took  a  little  heap  of  the 
sheets  at  random  from  the  pile,  placed  them  on  his  desk, 
and  left  them  there.  Then  he  lay  back  in  his  chair,  and 
reflected. 

For  three  weeks  he  had  been  copying  things  out  of  old 
newspapers  seven  hours  a  day.  He  had  been  paid 
twenty  dollars  a  week  for  it.  Why  ?  Was  Mrs.  Doyle 
a  charitable  angel  who  wished  to  help  him  and  his 
family  without  being  thanked  ?  No.  He  felt  that  was 
not  it.  His  eye  fell  on  the  note.  "Come  this  evening." 
A  light  went  up  in  his  mind  as  he  recognized  the  fact 
that  he  was  paid  for  the  hours  he  spent  in  No.  8,  not 
for  those  he  passed  in  No.  59.  - 

It  probably  meant  that  ]fcrsJlYaA.Qsten\  loved  him, 
and  must  see  him  when  she  wanted  to.  The  work  was 
but  a  pretext  to  keep  him  near  her,  within  call,  away 
from  others,  perhaps.  "Poor  little  woman!"  he  said. 
"  How  she  must  suffer ! "  Then  he  reflected  that  twenty 
dollars  a  week  was  not  much. 

At  a  quarter  past  eight  that  evening  he  turned  into 
66th  Street,  and  crossed  Mr.  Van  Osten,  who  had  just 
come  out  of  his  house.  Aldo  saluted  him  respectfully, 
but  Van  Osten  stood  still  and  lit  his  cigar  without 
appearing  to  notice  the  greeting. 


THE  DEVOURERS  183 

He  found  Mrs.  Van  Osten  alone,  bare-shouldered,  in 
black  and  diamonds.  She  was  agitated  and  angry. 

"  You  are  late ! "  she  cried. 

"  Forgive !  "  he  said,  kissing  her  hand. 

She  dragged  it  from  him.  "Did  you  meet  my  hus- 
band?" 

"Yes,"  said  Aldo. 

"  Did  he  see  you  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Are  you  sure  ?  Are  you  sure  ?  "  And  she  breathed 
quickly. 

«  Yes." 

"  He  saw  you  ?  He  saw  you  coming  here  and  did  not 

turn  back ? "  She  stopped,  and  the  narrow  lips 

\  closed  tightly.  Aldo  looked  at  her,  and  thought  her 
I  positively  ugly.  She  looked__like  a  small,  tight,  thin, 
I  crumpled  edition  of  jMrs.  Doyle.  ( 

"  Little  young  prairie-chicken,  said  Aldo  to  himself. 
But  the  butler  came  in  with  the  coffee  on  a  large  silver 
tray,  and  the  under-butler  followed  with  the  cream  and 

r  sugar  on  another  large  silver  tray.     And  the  riches,  the" 
atmosphere  of  calm,  powerful  wealth,  overcame  Aldo's 
soul ;  his  senses  swam  in  satisfaction,  and  he  felt  that, 
however  thin  and  small  and  crumpled  she  might  be,  he 
yet  could  return  the  prairie-chicken's  love.  _  — - 

When  the  servants  had  left  the  room  Aldo  felt  that  he 
ought  to  speak.  After  a  while  he  remembered  what, 
once  or  twice,  he  had  done  with  acceptable  success  in 
Italy  when  alone  with  a  comparatively  unknown  woman. 
In  a  low  voice  he  said : 
"  What  is  your  name  ?  " 

Mrs.  Van  Osten  raised  glassy  eyes.  He  repeated: 
"  I  do  not  yet  know  your  name." 


184  THE   DEVOURERS 

She  took  a  sip  of  coffee,  and  said,  very  slowly  and 
very  clearly : 

"  Mrs.  —  Van  —  Osten." 

"  No  —  not  that  name,"  he  said.  "  Your  own  name  — 
your  little  name " 

There  was  a  slight  noise  in  the  hall,  and  the  outer 
door  closed.  Mrs.  Van  Osten  heard  it,  and  answered 
Aldo  quickly  with  excited  eyes. 

"  Marjory,"  she  said. 

Aldo  bent  forward  over  his  coffee-cup.  "  Marjory  ?  " 
he  repeated  softly. 

It  succeeded.  It  succeeded  far  better  than  he  had 
expected,  or  than  it  usually  did. 

"  Say  it  again ! "  she  said  quickly.  "  I  like  to  hear 
it.  Say  it  again.  Quick  ! " 

"  Marjory  ! "  exclaimed  Aldo,  bending  nearer,  just  as 
the  door  opened  and  her  husband  came  in. 

She  turned  to  him  at  once.  "  Oh,  Bertie !  You 
have  come  back  ? "  and  she  laughed.  Aldo  looked  at 
her.  There  was  something  in  her  voice  and  in  her  laugh 
that  he  knew.  He  had  heard  it  in  women's  voices 
before.  It  was  love.  And  love  was  in  her  eyes  as  she 
raised  them  to  her  husband's  frowning  face. 

Then  Aldo  understood  what  he  was  there  for.  And 
more  than  ever,  as  he  looked  at  Mr.  Van  Osten's  powerful 
frame,  did  he  realize  that  twenty  dollars  was  little. 

He  stayed  only  a  short  time,  during  which  he  was 
sad,  and  silent,  and  bitter.  And  Mrs.  Van  Osten  was 
pleased  with  his  attitude.  As  he  took  his  leave,  he 
suddenly  decided  to  show  her  that  he  had  understood. 

"  Would  you  honour  me  by  seeing  '  Tannhauser '  from 
my  box  at  the  opera  to-morrow  night  ?  " 

A  gleam  shot  at  him  from  Mrs.  Van  Osteu's  sly  eye. 


THE  DEVOURERS  185 

Her  husband  laid  his  large  hand  on  his  wife's  bare 
shoulder. 

"  We  are  engaged,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Van  Osten  put  her  head  against  his  arm. 

"Indeed,  we  are  more  than  that,  Bertie,"  she  said, 
looking  up  at  him  with  an  enamoured  and  rapturous 
smile. 

Aldo  bowed  and  withdrew. 

The  next  day  was  Saturday.  On  his  desk  lay  the 
mauve  envelope,  and  in  it  was  a  hundred-dollar  bill. 

"I  shall  not  need  you  now  for  a  month  or  two,  I 
believe,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Osten  wistfully.  She  had  come 
over  to  his  "  office "  early  on  the  Monday  morning. 
"  But"  —  and  she  sighed  deeply  —  "  I  do  not  suppose  the 
effect  you  have  had  upon  my  husband  will  last  for  ever." 

"  Nothing  does  last  for  ever,"  said  Aldo  sententiously, 
seated  before  his  desk. 

"Then  I  shall  send  for  you  to  come  to  the  house 
again.  Meanwhile,  you  might  hang  round  a  little  in  a 
general  way,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Osten.  "  You  can  send  me 
flowers  if  you  like.  See  that  they  are  expensive  ones. 
But  don't  come  over  often.  If  he  once  kicks  you  out, 
it  will  make  everything  impossible." 

"  Yes,"  said  Aldo. 

"  Ah !  "  sighed  Mrs.  Van  Osten ;  "  why  are  such  things 
necessary.  Why  are  men  such  bgastej^' 

After  a  short  pause  Aldo  spoke  respectfully  in  a  sub- 
dued voice :  "  May  I  ask  who  she  is  ?  " 

"You  are  impertinent,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Osten,  "but 
I  may  as  well  tell  you.  Everyone  knows.  It  is 
Madeline  Archer,  that  dancing  minx.  She  has  made 
half  the  wives  in  New  York  miserable  ! " 

Aldo  made  a  little  sympathizing,  clucking  sound  with 


186  THE  DEVOURERS 

his  tongue.  Meanwhile  his  thoughts  were  quick  and 
definite. 

"  If,"  he  said,  as  she  rose  to  go,  "  any  friend  of  yours, 
one  of  the  wives  you  have  just  mentioned,  wanted 

er — would  like  —  er  —  thought  that  I  could  assist ..." 

"  Oh ! "  cried  Mrs.  Van  Osten,  clasping  her  hands  with 
peals  of  laughter,  "  you  are  a  daisy  !  Oh,  you  take  the 
pumpkin-pie!  Upon  my  word!  You  are  the  greatest 
ever!"  And  she  laughed  and  laughed,  rocking  to  and 
fro. 

Aldo  laughed  too,  glad  to  think  he  was  so  funny. 

"  Before  you  know  where  you  are,  you'll  be  opening 
a  bureau  — '  TPJT«<;  Aid  fly  ]f«yfapt.ftfl  WJVPH  '  « Perfect 
jealousy-arouser  of  the  careless  or  the"  cooling  hus- 
band. Diploma.  References.  Moderate  tariff.  Success 
guaranteed." 

"  Good  idea ! "  said  Aldo,  laughing.  And  in  a  way  he 
meant  it. 

She  stopped  laughing  suddenly.  "  You  won't  turn 
out  to  be  a  blackmailer,  will  you?  " 

"  No,"  said  Aldo,  looking  at  her  straight  from  out  of 
his  beautiful  eyes. 

"I  believe  you,"  she  said,  putting  out  her  hand. 
"Besides,  Mum,  who  knows  a  thing  or  two  about 
human  nature,  said  that  you  were  a  good,  soft  old  thing. 
And  now,"  she  added,  with  solemnity,  "for  what  you 
have  done  for  me,  and  the  way  you've  scared  Bertie 
into  good  behaviour,  you  may  give  me  a  kiss." 

She  put  up  her  narrow  mouth,  and  Aldo,  laughing 
a  little,  kissed  it. 

"...  I'm  glad  I  have  kissed  a  Count,"  said  Mrs.  Van 
Osten,  as  she  went  down  the  stairs. 


THE  DEVOURERS  187 

VIII 

IT  was  a  bright  autumn  day  when  Valeria  in  Milan 
received  Nancy's  letter  from  New  York,  telling  her  about 
those  first  weeks  of  misery. 

Valeria  had  an  income  of  two  hundred  francs  a  month, 
which  Uncle  Giacomo,  who  kept  her  securities  for  her, 
paid  to  her  punctually;  and  which  she  as  punctually 
paid  over  to  Aunt  Carlotta  for  her  board  and  lodging, 
reserving  apologetically  thirty  or  forty  francs  for  her  own 
small  needs.  On  the  day  the  letter  arrived,  Valeria 
locked  herself  in  her  room,  and  went  on  her  knees  before 
Guido  Reni's  gipsy-faced  Madonna.  The  Madonna  must 
help  Nancy.  She,  Valeria,  must  help  Nancy. 

Uncle  Giacomo  would  give  nothing  that  might  fall 
into  Aide's  hands ;  Carlo  less  than  nothing ;  he  would 
only  reproach  and  recriminate.  As  for  Nino,  he  had 
nothing  to  give.  Aunt  Carlotta  would  possibly  lend 
five  hundred  francs  with  great  difficulty  and  many 
warnings.  So  Valeria  decided  that  she  would  raise 
some  money  from  her  own  investments,  and  arrange 
to  have  a  smaller  income  for  a  few  years.  Nancy  must 
have  money.  So  Valeria  put  on  her  hat  and  her  black 
silk  bolero  coat  with  the  lace  jabot  down  the  front,  and 
brown  kid  gloves,  and  went  out  to  face  a  stormy  inter- 
view with  Zio  Giacomo. 

The  interview  was  stormy.  Giacomo's  temper  short- 
ened with  his  breath,  and  Valeria  was  wrung  with  anguish 
lest  his  anger  should  harm  him,  and  was  rent  with  re- 
morse when  she  had  succeeded  in  obtaining  what  she 
wanted.  She  would  not  say  what  the  money  was  for, 
because  she  knew  that  Zio  Giacomo  would  oppose  it, 
so  she  was  mysterious  and  wilful,  hinted  at  tragic  possi- 


188  THE  DEVOUKERS 

bilities,  wept  and  warned,  and  finally  left  Zio  Giacomo 
convinced  that  she  had  got  herself  into  some  serious 
financial  scrape.  "Ah,  these  silly  women,"  said  Zio 
Giacomo,  watching  Valeria  tripping  across  the  road, 
holding  her  violet  leather  handbag,  her  umbrella  and  her 
long  skirts  in  confused  hands.  At  one  moment  she  was 
right  under  a  horse's  nose,  but  the  driver  pulled  up 
suddenly,  and  the  swerving  carriage  went  on,  carrying 
on  its  box  a  red-faced,  head-shaking,  remark-making, 
driver.  "  Silly  women ! "  said  Uncle  Giacomo  again, 
and  returned  wrathf ully  to  his  desk. 

Valeria  went  to  a  bank,  where,  after  much  conf usion- 
ary  explanation,  and  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  waiting,  she 
emerged  with  five  thousand  francs,  and  some  silver  and 
pence.  Her  violet  bag  was  fat  with  it  all.  "Now," 
said  Valeria  to  herself,  "  I  will  go  to  Cook's  in  the  Via 
Manzoni,  and  change  it  into  American  money.  Or 
perhaps  they  can  send  it  over  in  some  other  way." 
Then  she  went  along  Piazza  del  Duomo,  thinking  of 
Nancy.  Poor,  penniless  Nancy!  Poor  little  helpless 
mother  of  the  still  more  helpless  Anne-Marie !  "  I  wish 
Tom  were  here  to  look  after  us  all ! "  she  said,  stepping 
off  the  pavement  to  cross  into  Via  Manzoni. 

If  Tom  had  been  there  he  would  have  stopped  her. 
He  would  have  caught  hold  of  her  elbow,  in  the  master- 
ful way  he  always  did  when  they  crossed  a  street  together, 
saying:  "Wait  a  minute."  Tom  would  have  seen  the 
tram-car  coming  rapidly  from  the  right,  and  a  carriage 
driving  up  from  the  left,  and  behind  the  carriage  —  oh, 
quite  a  distance  off  —  a  motor  coming  along  smoothly 
and  quickly.  But  Tom,  or  what  was  left  of  Tom,  lay 
in  Nervi  with  folded  hands,  and  nobody  told  Valeria  to 
wait  a  minute.  So  she  stepped  lightly  off  the  pavement, 


THE   DEVOURERS  189 

holding  her  violet  bag  tightly  in  one  hand,  and  her 
umbrella  and  her  skirts  in  the  other.  She  saw  the 
tram-car  coming  from  the  right  on  the  far  side  of  the 
street,  and  thought  she  would  run  across  and  pass  in 
front  of  it.  She  ran  two  steps,  and  then  saw  the  carriage 
close  to  her,  coming  from  the  left.  It  was  impossible 
to  cross  before  it,  so  she  stepped  back  quickly,  very 
quickly,  and  the  carriage  passed.  The  driver's  face 
was  turned  to  her  :  was  that  anger  in  his  face  ?  What 
a  mad,  terrible  face !  He  was  screaming  and  gesticu- 
lating. What  tempers  people  had  in  Italy,  thought 
Valeria,  for  thought  is  rapid.  .  .  .  Then  something 
struck  her  in  the  back,  and  she  thought  no  more.  A 
moment's  maddening  roar  and  clamour  and  confusion, 
then  utter  stillness. 

.  .  .  Valeria  felt  a  cadenced,  gently  oscillating  move- 
ment, and  opened  her  eyes.  She  could  see  nothing. 
A  grey  linen  roof  was  above  her,  grey  linen  walls  around 
her.  Ah,  the  walls  undulated,  parted  slightly,  and  let 
some  light  through.  Valeria  could  see  parts  of  shops, 
and  of  houses,  and  people  passing.  .  .  .  She  was  being 
carried  through  the  streets.  What  was  the  matter 
with  her  mouth  ?  She  raised  her  hand  in  its  brown 
kid  glove  and  touched  her  mouth,  and  down  along  one 
side  of  it  where  she  felt  something  unusual;  her  glove 
seemed  not  to  touch  her  cheek  but  her  teeth ;  then 
something  hot  and  viscid  ran  into  the  palm  of  her  hand 
and  down  her  arm.  A  hand  —  was  it  hers  ?  —  fell  on  her 
breast.  Suddenly  she  remembered  her  violet  bag,  fat 
with  money.  Where  was  it  ?  She  tried  to  say,  "  Where 
is  it  ?  Where  is  it  ?  It  is  Nancy's."  She  cried  it  out 
loud,  but  could  hear  only  a  muffled  bubbling  and  blow- 
ing through  her  mouth.  Then  oblivion. 


190  THE  DEVOUKERS 

.  .  .  Now  she  was  in  a  small,  light  room.  Everything 
round  her  was  light  and  white ;  she  saw  the  ceiling  first. 
It  was  of  glass  —  white  frosted  glass.  Everything  was 
white ;  the  people  were  white,  except  their  faces,  which 
looked  dark  and  yellow  over  their  white  clothes.  One 
of  the  faces  looked  at  her  very  near,  then  another. 
Then  a  lighter  face  came  with  white  wings  round  its 
head.  Valeria  knew  what  that  was,  but  could  not 
remember.  She  thought  she  would  smile  at  that  face, 
and  did  so,  but  the  face  did  not  smile  back.  It  con- 
tinued looking  at  her  closely,  and  she  felt  a  hand  touch 
her  forehead  and  smooth  back  her  hair. 

Another  face  came,  red,  with  bloodshot  eyes,  and  some- 
one took  hold  of  her  head  and  turned  it.  A  voice  said : 
"Useless.  But  we  can  try."  Then  a  sound  of  running 
water.  Valeria  put  out  her  hand  to  stop  it.  Immediately 
the  winged  face  was  bending  over  her.  "  Yes,  dear  ? 
Yes,  dear  ?  "  Valeria  thought  she  told  her  to  stop  the 
running  water.  But  the  winged  face  only  nodded  and 
smiled,  and  said :  "  That  is  a  good,  brave  dear !  We 
shall  soon  be  better  —  soon  be  better."  Another  face 
and  a  voice :  "  Shall  I  wash  this  ?  "  Then  something 
gushed  over  Valeria's  cheek  and  trickled,  warm  and  salt, 
down  her  throat.  Something  choked.  Then  there  was 
a  pain,  a  pain  somewhere  in  the  room,  a  burning,  mad- 
dening pain.  A  man's  voice  said :  "  Leave  alone. 
That's  no  use.  Look  at  this."  Valeria's  head  was 
turned  round  again,  and  she  heard  a  crepitant  sound  as 
if  her  hair  were  being  cut.  Running  water  again.  .  .  . 
Valeria's  head  lay  sideways,  and  she  could  see  the  white- 
gowned  back  of  a  man  washing  his  hands  under  a  silver 
tap.  She  liked  watching  him.  He  turned  round,  shaking 
his  wet  hands  in  the  air  with  his  sleeves  rolled  back. 


THE   DEVOUKEKS  191 

It  was  he  who  had  the  red  face  and  the  bloodshot  eyes, 
and  a  clipped  grey  moustache.  He  nodded  to  Valeria 
as  he  saw  her  eyes  open,  and  said :  "  That's  good,  that's 
right.  A  little  patience."  Valeria  smiled  at  him;  she 
felt  that  her  mouth  did  not  move,  so  she  blinked  with  her 
eyes,  and  the  red  face  nodded  back  in  friendly  manner. 

Someone  held  her  wrist,  and  for  a  while  everything 
was  silent.  Again,  again,  a  shooting,  maddening  pain. 
An  exclamation,  and  then  a  word :  "  Useless."  Valeria 
opened  her  eyes.  She  saw  the  white-winged  woman's 
face  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  red  face,  which  was  bend- 
ing forward,  and  the  two  other  faces  were  also  bending 
over,  looking  down  at  something  Valeria  could  not  see, 
for  it  was  on  her  own  pillow.  Then  the  red-faced  man 
said  :  "  Useless,"  again.  And  the  white- winged  face 
moved  its  lips. 

"  Useless  !  "  The  word  conveyed  nothing  clear  to 
Valeria's  mind,  but  something  in  her  body  responded  to 
the  word.  Thump,  thump,  thump,  her  heart  began  to 
beat,  loud  and  quick,  louder  and  quicker,  until  it  could 
be  heard  all  over  the  room.  Thump,  thump,  thump, 
it  rolled  like  a  drum,  and  Valeria  turned  her  frightened 
eyes  to  the  red  face  above  her.  She  said  to  him :  "  Stop 
my  heart.  Stop  my  heart  from  beating  like  this." 
But  the  three  men  and  the  sister  did  not  seem  to  hear. 
They  stood  quite  still  listening  to  it,  and  then  Valeria 
knew  that  she  had  not  spoken.  Thud,  thump ;  thud, 
thump;  quicker  and  quicker,  and  Valeria's  eyes  rolled 
wildly,  imploring  help.  Then  the  Sister  said  to  the 
surgeon :  "  Oh,  try !  try,  poor  thing  ! "  And  again 
water  rushed,  and  something  was  rolled  stridently 
across  the  marble  floor. 

"  Ether,"  said  the  surgeon. 


192  THE  DEVOUREKS 

One  of  the  yellow  faces  bent  over  her,  and  he  had  a 
dark  net  mask  in  his  hand.  He  held  it  over  her  face. 

Suddenly  Valeria  was  wide  awake.  She  sat  up  with 
a  shriek,  and  struck  out  at  the  yellow  face  and  the 
mask.  She  saw  the  two  doctors  and  the  old  surgeon, 
and  the  Sister  of  Charity.  She  spoke  and  her  voice 
came.  She  wanted  to  say :  "  Save  me !  Save  me  ! " 
but  she  heard  herself  saying :  "  I  have  time  to  cross !  " 
Then  she  tried  to  explain  about  the  violet  bag,  and  the 
money,  but  what  she  cried  was :  "  Nancy  !  Nancy ! " 
Then  the  surgeon  was  angry  with  the  man  who  held  the 
mask,  and  turned  on  him  with  impatient  words.  But 
the  Sister  stood  over  Valeria,  and  made  the  sign  of  the 
cross  above  her.  "  Lie  down,  dear,  lie  down,"  she  said. 
So  Valeria  lay  down. 

Thud,  thump ;  thud,  thump ;  thud,  thump,  rolled  the 
drum  of  her  heart. 

"  Now,"  said  the  surgeon,  "  you  must  be  good.  Don't 
move !  Count !  Count  to  twenty." 

Valeria  struggled  to  get  up.  The  black  mask  was  near 
her  face  again. 

"  Now,  dear,  now  !  "  said  the  Sister's  voice.  "  Count : 
one  —  two  —  three " 

"  Breathe  deeply,"  said  someone,  and  Valeria  did  as 
she  was  told. 

Then  she  remembered  that  she  was  to  count.  But 
she  had  lost  time,  so  she  felt  she  must  begin  further  on. 
"...  Nine,"  she  said,  breathing  deeply  ;  "  ten."  She 
was  on  a  swing  —  a  large,  wild  swing  in  the  air  that 
swung  her  out  in  the  sky  and  back  through  the  wide, 
white  air.  "Eleven,  twelve,"  Valeria  felt  that  she 
must  say  thirteen  quickly  because — unlucky  number  — 
"thirteen  .  .  fourteen.  .  .  ." 


THE  DEVOURERS  193 

The  swing  swung  her  out,  flying  through  the  air  with 
a  swoop  and  a  sweep  beyond  all  the  mountains.  The 
people  around  her  seemed  to  be  left  far  away,  down  in  the 
little  white  room.  They  would  never  hear  her  voice 
from  so  far  away.  "  FIFTEEN  ! "  she  cried,  shouting 
loud,  loud,  from  afar.  Then  the  sweep  of  a  gigantic 

wave  swung  her  out  into  Eternity. 

^i 

"  I  knew  it  was  useless,"  said  the  Surgeon  angrily. 
The  face  was  covered,  and  the  stretcher  was  wheeled 
away. 

An  hour  later  Zio  Giacomo,  Nino,  and  Aunt  Carlotta 
came  hurrying  in,  red-eyed  and  white-faced.  It  was 
over.  Aunt  Carlotta  wrung  her  hands,  and  the  Sister 
consoled  her,  and  assured  her  that  there  had  been  no 
suffering. 

"  I  want  to  see  her,"  said  Aunt  Carlotta,  sobbing. 

"No,  no,"  said  the  Sister.     "Don't." 

"  Don't ! "  said  Giacomo  brokenly,  the  tears  streaming 
down  his  face.  Nino  said  not  a  word,  but  went  with  one 
of  the  young  doctors  into  the  large  bare  room  where 
two  stretchers  stood,  each  with  a  shrouded  burden. 

"This  one,"  said  the  doctor,  he  who  had  held  the 
mask.  Nino  saw,  gasped,  and  turned  away. 

Aunt  Carlotta  was  being  led  in,  supported  by  the 
Sister.  Nino  grasped  her  hand. 

"  Come  away,"  he  whispered ;  "  come  away  at  once." 

Carlotta  shook  her  head,  her  face  buried  in  her  hand- 
kerchief. "  My  sister's  child !  My  sister's  only  child  ! 
I  must  close  her  eyes."  Nino  went  out. 

Carlotta  was  led  to  the  farther  of  the  two  stretchers. 
The  cloth  was  lifted  from  Valeria's  face.  Then  shriek 
after  shriek  resounded  through  the  bare  chill  room, 


194  THE  DEVOUKERS 

echoing  through  the  wide  corridors,  reaching  the  patients 
lying  selfish  and  sad  in  their  wards.     Shriek  after  shriek. 
But  the  two  quiet  figures  on  the  stretchers  were  not 
disturbed. 
Valeria  was  buried  in  Nervi  near  Tom. 

IX 

WHEN  Nancy  in  New  York  received  the  news  of  her 
mother's  death  she  wore  black  instead  of  brown,  and 
wept,  and  wept,  and  wept,  as  children  weep  for  their 
mothers.  Then  she  wore  brown  again,  and  went  on 
living  for  Anne-Marie,  as  mothers  live  for  their  children. 

They  had  left  Mrs.  Schmidl's  kindly,  dingy  roof,  and 
moved  a  little  further  away  from  the  niggers,  into  a  small 
flat  in  82nd  Street.  Mrs.  Schmidl's  niece,  Minna,  came 
and  did  the  housework,  and  took  Anne-Marie  for  walks. 
Anne-Marie  loved  Minna.  Anne-Marie  watched  her 
with  entranced  gaze  when  she  spoke  to  the  tradesmen, 
and  followed  her  from  room  to  room  when  she  swept 
and  did  the  beds.  Minna  wore  low-necked  collars,  and 
a  little  black  velvet  ribbon  round  her  neck,  and  pink 
beads.  She  was  beautiful  in  Anne-Marie's  sight,  and 
Anne-Marie  imitated  as  much  as  possible  her  manner,  her 
walk,  and  her  language.  Nancy  could  hear  them  talking 
together  in  the  kitchen.  Minna's  voice :  "  What  did 
you  have  for  your  tea  ?  A  butter-bread  ? "  And 
Anne-Marie's  piping  treble:  "Yes,  two  butter-breads 
mit  sugar."  Minna  :  "  That's  fine !  To-morrow  Tante 
Schmidl  makes  a  cake,  a  good  one.  We  eat  it  evenings." 
"  A  cake  —  a  good  one ! "  echoed  Anne-Marie. 

Nancy's  soul  crumbled  with  mortification.  She  had 
taken  out  her  manuscript,  and  it  lay  before  her  on  the 


THE  DEVOURERS  195 

table  once  more.  Its  broad  pages  were  dear  to  her 
touch.  They  felt  thick  and  solid.  The  tingling  fresh- 
ness of  thought,  the  little  thrill  that  always  preceded 
the  ripple  and  rush  of  inspiration,  caught  at  her,  and 
the  ivory  pen  was  in  her  hand. 

"A  cake  —  a  good  one,"  repeated  in  the  next  room 
Anne-Marie,  who  liked  the  substantial  German  sound  of 
that  phrase. 

"  Oh,  my  little  girl !  My  little  girl !  How  will  she 
grow  up?"  And  Nancy  the  mother  took  the  ivory 
pen  from  Nancy  the  poet's  hand,  and  Anne-Marie  was 
called  and  kept,  and  taught,  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

During  the  months  that  followed,  Nancy  played  a 
game  with  her  little  daughter  which,  to  a  certain  extent, 
was  successful. 

"  We  will  play  that  you  are  a  little  book  of  mine,  that 
I  have  written.  A  pretty  little  book  like  Andersen's 
'Marchen,'  with  the  pictures  in  it.  And  in  this  book 
that  I  love " 

"  What  colour  is  it  ?  "  asked  Anne-Marie. 

"  Pink,  and  white,  and  gold,"  said  Nancy,  kissing  the 
child's  shining  hair. 

"  Well,  in  it,  in  the  midst  of  the  loveliest  fairy-tale, 
somebody  has  come  and  written  dreadfully  silly,  ugly 
words,  like — like  'butter-bread.'  I  must  take  all  those 
out,  mustn't  I?  And  put  pretty  words  and  pretty 
thoughts  in  instead.  Otherwise  nobody  will  like  to 
read  the  book." 

"No,"  said  Anne-Marie,  looking  slightly  dazed.  "And 
will  you  put  pictures  in  it  ?  " 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Nancy.  "And  I  wish  I  could  put 
rhymes  into  it  too." 

But  that  was  not  to  be.     Long  explanations  about 


196  THE  DEVOUKERS 

boy  and  toy  —  rain  and  pain  —  fly  and  cry  —  far  and  star 
—  left  Anne-Marie  bewildered  and  cross. 

Nancy  coaxed  and  petted  her.  "Just  you  say  a 
rhyme !  Only  one.  Now  what  rhymes  with  day  ?  " 

No.  Annie-Marie  did  not  know  what  rhymed  with 
day. 

"  Play,  of  course,  my  goosie  dear !  Now  what  rhymes 
with  dear  ?  " 

"  Play,"  said  Anne-Marie. 

"No;  do  think  a  little,  sweetheart.  With  dear!  — 
dear  f" 

"Vegetables?"  asked  Anne-Marie,  who  had  spent 
many  hours  in  Frau  Schmidl's  kitchen. 

Nancy  groaned.     "  Dear  !  "  she  repeated  again. 

"  Darling ! "  cried  Anne-Marie  triumphantly,  and  was 
lifted  up  and  embraced. 

"  I  wish  you  were  a  poet,  Anne-Marie ! "  said  her 
mother,  pushing  the  fair  locks  from  the  child's  level 
brow. 

"  What  for  ?  "  said  Anne-Marie,  wriggling. 

"  Poets  never  die,"  said  Nancy,  thus  placing  a  picture 
in  the  fairy-tale  book. 

"Then  I'll  be,"  said  Anne-Marie,  who  knew  death 
from  having  buried  a  dead  kitten  in  the  Schmidls'  yard, 
and  dug  it  up  a  day  or  two  after  to  see  what  it  was 
like. 

But  Anne-Marie  was  not  to  be  a  poet.  In  the  little 
pink  and  white  books  that  mothers  think  they  create, 
the  Story  is  written  before  ever  they  reach  the  tender 
maternal  hands.  And  Anne-Marie  was  not  to  be  a 
poet. 

But  Nancy  herself  could  not  forget  that  Fate  had 
printed  the  seal  of  immortality  upon  her  own  girlish 


THE   DEVOURERS  197 

brow.  She  thought :  "  I  cannot  finish  The  Book  now. 
The  Book  must  wait  until  later  on,  when  Anne-Marie 
does  not  need  me  every  moment.  But  now,  now  I  can 
write  a  cycle  of  child-poems  on  Anne-Marie." 

So  she  watched  her  little  daughter  through  narrowed 
eyelids,  throwing  over  the  unconscious  blonde  head  the 
misty  veil  of  imagery,  searching  in  the  light  blue  eyes 
for  the  source  of  word  and  symbol,  standing  Anne- 
Marie  like  a  little  neoteric  statue  on  the  top  of  a 
sonnet,  trying  to  fix  her  in  some  rare,  archaic  pose. 
But  Anne-Marie  was  the  child  of  her  surroundings; 
Anne-Marie  wore  clothes  of  Minna's  cutting  and  fit- 
ting, and  on  her  yellow  head  a  flat  pink  cotton  hat 
like  a  lid.  Anne-Marie  had  spoken  Italian  like  a 
royal  princess,  but  her  German-American  English  was 
of  7th  Avenue  and  82nd  Street.  And  Anne-Marie's 
pleasures  were,  as  are  those  of  every  child,  taken  where 
she  found  them;  for  her  no  wandering  in  a  shady 
garden,  nursing  an  expensive,  mellifluously-named  doll. 
Since  the  Monte  Carlo  "  Marguerite-Louise,"  whose  eyes, 
attached  to  two  small  lumps  of  lead  now  lay  in  a  box 
on  a  shelf,  Anne-Marie's  dolls  had  been  numerous  but 
unloved.  At  Mrs.  Schmidl's  suggestion,  and  for  economic 
motives,  Nancy  had  gone  down  town  one  day  to  a  whole- 
sale shop  in  Lower  Broadway,  where  she  had  been  able 
to  buy  "  one  dozen  dolls,  size  nine,  quality  four,  hair 
yellow,  dress  blue,"  for  two  dollars  and  seventy  cents. 

The  first  of  the  dozen  was  the  same  evening  presented 
to  Anne-Marie.  It  was  rapturously  kissed;  it  was 
christened  Hermina  —  Minna's  name ;  its  clotted  yellow 
hair  was  combed;  attempts  were  made  to  undress  it, 
but  as  it  did  not  undress,  it  was  put  to  sleep  as  it  was, 
and  Anne-Marie  went  to  bed  carefully  beside  it. 


198  THE  DEVOURERS 

In  due  time  Hermina  broke  and  died.  What  un- 
bounded joy  was  Anne-Marie's  when  Hermina  herself, 
with  the  self-same  azure  eyes,  clotted  yellow  hair,  blue 
dress,  angel  smile,  reappeared  before  her.  She  was 
rapturously  kissed.  In  due  time  also  this  second 
Hermina,  legless,  and  with  pendulous,  dislocated  head, 
was  taken  away  from  Anne-Marie's  fond  arms,  and  a 
new  stiff  Hermina  was  produced,  with  clotted  hair  and 
angel  smile  renewed.  Anne-Marie's  eyes  opened  large 
and  wide,  and  she  drew  a  deep  breath.  With  more 
amazement  than  love  she  accepted  the  third  Hermina, 
and  did  not  kiss  her.  That  Hermina  died  quickly,  and 
Nancy,  with  a  triumphant  smile,  produced  a  fourth. 
With  a  shriek  of  hatred  Anne-Marie  took  her  by  the  well- 
known  painted  boots,  and  hit  the  well-known  face 
against  the  floor. 

The  other  eight  were  given  to  her  at  once,  and  were 
hit,  and  hated,  and  stamped  upon.  For  many  nights 
Anne-Marie's  dreams  were  peopled  with  dead  and 
resuscitated  Herrninas — placid,  smiling  Herminas  with 
no  legs  ;  booted  Herminas  with  large  pieces  broken  out 
of  their  cheeks ;  fearful  Herminas  all  right  in  the  back, 
but  with  darksome  voids  where  their  faces  ought  to  be 
under  the  clotted  yellow  hair. 

She  would  have  no  more  dolls,  and  her  pleasures 
were  taken  where  she  found  them  —  mainly  in  the  kitchen. 
She  liked  to  wash  dishes,  because  she  was  not  allowed 
to;  and  she  could  be  seen  whisking  a  kitchen-towel 
under  her  arm  in  the  brisk,  important  manner  of  Minna. 
She  liked  to  see  the  butcher's  man  slap  a  piece  of  steak 
down  on  the  table;  and  the  laugh  of  the  "coloured 
lady  "  who  brought  the  washing  was  sweet  in  her  ears. 
She  also  liked  the  piano  that  was  played  in  the  adjoining 


THE   DEVOUKERS  199 

flat —  the  piano  that  drove  Nancy  to  distraction  and 
despair  whenever  she  tried  to  work. 

"  Rose  of  my  spirit,  Fountain  of  my  love, 
Lilial  blue- veined  flower  of  my  desire " 

wrote  Nancy,  trying  not  to  hear  the  climpering  next 

door. 
"Minna!    Minna!    What    is    that    tune?"    called 

Anne-Marie,  jumping  from  her  chair.     "Is  it  'Eastside, 

Westside,'  or  '  Paradise  Alley '  ?  " 

"  No,  it  ain't.     It's  '  Casey  would  waltz.' " 

"  Oh,  is  it  ?    Sing  it.    Do  sing  it,  Minna." 

And  from  the  kitchen  came  Minna's  voice,  a  loud 

soprano : 

"  Casey  would  waltz  with  the  strawberry  blonde, 
And  the  band  —  played  —  on." 

Then  Anne-Marie's  childish  falsetto : 

"  Casey  would  waltz  with  the  strawberry  blonde, 
And  the  band  —  play  —  don." 

Alas !  even  the  cycle  of  child  poems  must  wait  until 
Nancy  could  afford  a  larger  apartment,  and  a  governess 
for  the  "  lilial  blue-veined  flower  of  her  desire."  There 
was  no  "Stimmung"  for  lyrics  in  the  left-top  flat  in 
82nd  Street. 

Aldo  was  at  home  a  good  deal  during  the  day-time, 
yawning,  reading  the  interminable  Sunday  papers  that 
lay  about  all  the  week,  smoking  cigarettes,  and  wishing 
they  could  afford  this  and  that. 

In  the  evenings  he  went  out.  His  work,  it  seemed, 
was  to  be  done  more  in  the  evening  than  in  the  day-time, 
so  he  explained  to  Nancy.  He  explained  very  little  to 
Nancy.  Once  he  had  brought  home  one  hundred  dollars 
instead  of  twenty,  but  she  had  been  so  startled  and 


200  THE  DEVOURERS 

aghast,  so  nervous  and  impatient  to  know  how  he  had 
got  it,  and,  above  all,  it  had  been  so  impossible  to  make 
her  understand  the  subtleties  of  his  duties  to  Mrs.  Van 
Osten.  that  he  had  finally  declared  it  was  simply  a 
present  for  an  extra  important  piece  of  work  he  had 
had  to  do.  And  the  next  time  he  received  a  hundred 
dollars  —  about  three  months  afterwards,  when  more 
arduous  duties  once  more  developed  upon  him  —  he  took 
eighty  to  the  Dime  Savings-Bank,  and  brought  the  usual 
twenty  dollars  home. 

As  soon  as  the  little  savings-bank  book  was  placed  in 
his  hand,  the  Caracciolo  grandfather  awoke  in  him  again, 
and  murdered  the  lazzarone  who  cared  not  for  the 
morrow.  He  became  heedful  of  little  things,  grudging 
of  little  expenses.  The  dingy  flat  was  run  on  the  strictest 
principles  of  economy,  and  when  a  dollar  could  be 
taken  up  the  steps  of  the  savings-bank  and  put  away, 
he  was  happy.  He  had  learned  that  by  making  deep, 
grateful  eyes  at  Minna  over  the  accounts,  she  would 
keep  expenses  down  to  please  him ;  and  many  were  the 
lumps  of  sugar  and  bits  of  butter  taken  from  Mrs. 
Schmidl's  larder  by  Minna's  fat,  pink  hand  and  placed, 
sacrificial  offerings,  on  the  Delia  Roccas'  shabby  table. 

Anne-Marie's  pink  hats  and  Minna-made  frocks  had 
to  last  through  the  seasons  long  after  the  "coloured 
lady"  had  washed  every  vestige  of  tint  and  vitality 
out  of  them,  and  they  were  a  thorn  in  Nancy's  eye. 
Nancy  wore  her  pepper-and-salt  dress  day  after  day; 
it  turned,  and  it  dyed  —  black,  and  when  it  was  no  more, 
she  got  another  like  it. 

The  days  passed  meanly  and  quickly.  And  Nancy 
learned  that  one  can  be  dingy,  and  sordid,  and  poverty- 
stricken,  and  yet  go  on  living,  and  gently  drift  down  into 


THE   DEVOURERS  201 

the  habit  of  it,  and  hardly  remember  that  things  were 
ever  otherwise. 

The  evenings  only  were  terrible.  When  Minna  had 
gone  home,  and  Anne-Marie  slept,  and  Aldo  had  saun- 
tered out  to  meet  some  Italians,  or  had  hurried  in  full 
evening-dress  to  his  work,  Nancy  sat  drearily  in  the 
"parlour."  From  mantelpiece,  shelf,  and  what-not 
photographs  of  unknown  people,  friends  of  Mrs.  John- 
stone,  the  landlady,  gazed  at  her  with  faded  faces  and 
in  obsolete  attire ;  actresses  in  boy's  clothes,  and  large- 
faced  children;  chinless  young  men  in  turned-down 
collars  ;  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Johnstone  in  bridal  attire  ;  their 
first-born  baby  with  no  clothes  on,  now  a  clerk  at  Macy's. 
Hanging  on  the  wall,  with  whitish  eyes  that  followed 
Nancy  about,  was  the  enlarged  photograph  of  dead 
Mr.  Johnstone,  and  Nancy,  in  her  loneliness,  feared  him. 
She  covered  him  one  evening  with  a  table-cloth,  but  it 
was  worse.  When,  on  her  arrival  months  ago,  she  had 
collected  all  these  photographs  and  hidden  them  away  in 
a  closet,  Mrs.  Johnstone,  who  liked  to  drop  in  suddenly, 
had  arrived,  and  looked  round  with  a  red  face. 

"You  don't  want  to  do  that,"  she  had  said,  taking 
all  the  pictures  out  again  and  setting  them  up  in  their 
places.  She  also  would  not  allow  the  large  ornamental 
piano-lamp,  that  took  up  half  the  stuffy  little  room,  to  be 
moved.  It  had  cost  thirty-two  dollars.  So  it  stood 
there  in  the  dark-carpeted,  obscure  parlour,  and  its 
yellow  silk  shade  with  the  grimy  white  silk  roses  pinned 
on  it  was  an  outrage  to  Nancy's  pained  gaze. 

One  evening  at  bed-time  Anne-Marie  said  to  her 
mother :  "  I  like  the  girl  next  door." 

"  You  do  not  know  her,  darling,"  said  Nancy. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  do.     I  talked  to  her  from  the  back-window." 


202  THE  DEVOURERS 

"  What  is  her  name  ?  "  said  Nancy,  unfastening  strings 
and  buttons  on  her  daughter's  back. 

"  Oh,  she  told  me — I  don't  know.  A  little  dry  name 
like  a  cough." 

Nancy  laughed  and  kissed  the  nape  of  Anne-Marie's 
neck,  which  was  plump,  and  fair,  and  sweet  to  smell. 
At  that  moment  the  girl-neighbour  knocked  and  came 
in,  with  a  bear  made  of  chocolate  for  Anne-Marie.  Her 
name  —  the  dry  name  like  a  cough  —  was  Peggy. 

"  I've  just  come  in  because  I  thought  you  seemed  kind 
of  lonesome,"  she  said,  looking  round  the  parlour  after 
Anne-Marie  had  been  tucked  in  and  left  in  the  adjoining 
bedroom  with  the  door  ajar. 

She  then  told  Nancy  that  she  worked  in  a  hairdresser's 
shop  down  Broadway,  "  mostly  fixing  nails."  "  Sicken- 
ing work,"  she  added.  "All  those  different  hands  I 
have  to  keep  holding  kind  of  turns  me.  Especially 
women's ! " 

Nancy  laughed.  Peggy  offered  to  fix  her  nails  for 
nothing,  and  after  some  hesitation  Nancy  allowed  her  to 
do  so. 

"  My !  you  have  hands  quite  like  a  lady,"  said  Peggy ; 
and  the  cup  of  Nancy's  bitterness  was  full.  Nancy 
quickly  changed  the  subject. 

"  Is  it  you  who  play  the  piano  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,  my  brother.  He  works  in  a  shipping  office.  But 
he  is  great  on  music." 

At  this  point  Anne-Marie's  voice  was  heard  from  the 
adjoining  room :  "  What  is  that  piece  that  was  lovely  ?  " 

Peggy  laughed,  but  could  not  say  which  piece  Anne- 
Marie  meant.  After  a  while  she  went  to  call  her  brother, 
who  came  in,  lanky  and  diffident,  and  was  introduced 
as  "George."  Anne-Marie  kept  calling  from  her  room 


THE   DEVOURERS  203 

about  the  piece  that  was  lovely,  and  finally  the  young 
man  went  back  to  his  flat,  leaving  the  doors  open,  and 
played  all  the  pieces  of  his  repertoire. 

But  "  the  piece  that  was  lovely  "  was  not  among  them. 
Peggy  and  Nancy  said:  "She  probably  dreamt  it." 
But  Anne-Marie  cried  "  No,  no,  no ! "  at  the  first  note  of 
every  piece  that  was  started.  At  last  she  wept,  and  was 
naughty  and  rude,  and  the  bear's  hindlegs,  which  she  had 
not  yet  eaten,  were  taken  away  from  her. 

Peggy  and  George  were  very  friendly,  and  promised 
to  call  again.  They  lived  alone.  Their  parents  had  a 
sheep  ranch  in  Dakota. 

"  Rotten  place,"  said  George.  "  New  York  is  good 
enough  for  me."  And  they  shook  hands  and  left. 

After  that,  when  Mr.  Johnstone  frightened  Nancy 
more  than  usual,  she  knocked  at  the  wall  in  Anne-Marie's 
room  with  a  hair-brush,  and  Peggy  came  in,  and  spent 
a  friendly  evening  with  her.  Sometimes  George  came, 
too,  and  read  the  magazine  supplements  of  the  Sunday 
papers  aloud.  George  read  all  the  poems. 

"  He's  a  great  one  for  poetry,"  said  his  sister. 

George  passed  his  manicured  fingers  through  his  thin 
hair,  and  looked  self-conscious. 

"  I  guess  all  the  real  poets  are  dead  long  ago,"  he 
said. 

"  I  fear  so,"  said  Nancy. 

"Mamma!"  came  Anne-Marie's  voice,  distinct  and 
wide-awake,  through  the  half-open  door. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  said  Nancy.     "  Good-night." 

"  Mamma ! "  cried  Anne-Marie.     "  Come  here." 

Nancy  rose  and  went  to  her.  Anne-Marie  was  sitting 
up  in  bed. 

"What  did  he  say?" 


204  THE  DEVOURERS 

Nancy  did  not  know. 

"He  said  the  poets  were  dead.  All  the  real  ones. 
You  said  poets  could  never  die." 

Nancy  sat  down  on  the  bed,  and  pressed  the  little  fair 
head  to  her  heart. 

"  I  will  tell  you  about  that  to-morrow,"  she  said. 
"And  you  must  not  listen  to  what  is  said  in  another 
room.  It  is  not  honourable."  After  a  long  explanation 
of  what  "honourable"  meant.  Nancy  rose  and  kissed 
her. 

"You  had  better  shut  the  door,"  said  Anne-Marie. 
"  One  can't  be  honourable  if  one  can  be  not." 

So  the  door  was  closed. 

Early  next  morning  Anne-Marie  inquired  about  the 
poets. 

"  Well,"  said  Nancy,  who  had  forgotten  about  it,  and 
was  taken  unawares.  She  spoke  slowly,  making  up  her 
story  as  she  went  on,  and  trying  to  put  another  picture 
in  the  little  book  of  Anne-Marie's  mind.  "  Once  the 
world  was  full  of  roses,  and  poets  lived  for  ever." 

"  Yes,"  said  Anne-Marie. 

"  Then  one  day  some  people  said  to  God :  '  There  are 
too  many  useless  things  in  the  world.  Roses,  for 
instance.  We  could  do  without  them,  and  have  vege- 
tables instead.'  So  God  took  away  the  roses.  And  all 
the  poets  died." 

"What  of?" 

"  Of  silence,"  said  Nancy.  "  They  died  because  they 
had  nothing  more  to  say." 

Anne-Marie  looked  very  sad.  Nancy  made  haste  to 
comfort  her. 

"Then  God  put  a  few  roses  back,  for  little  Anne- 
Maries  who  don't  like  vegetables  (which  is  very  naughty 


THE  DEVOURERS  205 

of  them,  because  they  do  one  good),  and  so  also  a  few 
poets  came  back  into  the  world." 

"  But  not  the  real  ones  ?  " 

"  Well,  not  quite  real  ones,  perhaps,"  said  Nancy. 

"  Then  what  is  the  good  of  them  ?  "  asked  Anne-Marie. 

Nancy  could  not  say.  Nancy  could  not  say  what  was 
the  good  of  not  quite  real  poets.  But  for  that  matter, 
what  was  the  good  of  the  real  ones  ?  What  was  the  good 
of  anything  ?  Nancy's  thoughts  went  in  drooping  file  to 
her  own  work.  What  was  the  good  of  writing  a  Book  ? 
"  I  need  not  have  written  any  story  at  all,"  she  said  to 
herself. 

Perhaps  that  is  what  God  will  say  when  the  dead 
worlds  come  rolling  in  at  his  feet,  at  the  end  of  Eternity. 


POVERTY  and  loneliness  pushed  Nancy  along  the  dreary 
year,  and  she  went  in  her  brown  dress,  with  her  heels 
worn  down  at  the  side,  through  the  autumn  and  the 
winter.  Aldo  was  away  for  weeks  at  a  time,  and 
although  he  seemed  in  good  humour  when  he  was  at 
home,  and  dressed  elaborately,  he  was  always  par- 
simonious in  the  house,  warning  against  rashness  and 
expense. 

Anne-Marie  went  to  a  kindergarten,  where  the 
grocer's  children,  and  the  baker's  children,  and  the  milk- 
man's children  went,  and  she  liked  them,  and  they  liked 
her. 

And  now  April  was  here.  Where  it  could,  it  pushed 
and  penetrated;  through  the  trestles  of  the  elevated 
railroads  it  spilt  its  sunshine  on  the  ground.  And  it  ran 
into  the  open  window  of  the  82nd  Street  flat,  and 


206  THE   DEVOURERS 

stretched  its  sweetness  on  the  faded  yellow  silk  of  the 
hated  lampshade. 

To  Nancy,  who  was  moping  in  her  dingy  brown  dress, 
April  said :  "  Go  out."  So  she  put  on  her  hat,  and  went 
out.  And,  having  no  reason  to  turn  to  the  right,  she 
turned  to  the  left,  and  after  a  few  blocks,  having  no 
reason  to  turn  to  the  left,  she  turned  to  the  right,  and 
ran  straight  into  a  little  messenger-boy,  who  was  coming 
round  the  corner  carrying  some  flowers  in  tissue-paper, 
and  whistling. 

Some  trailing  maidenhair  escaping  from  the  paper 
caught  in  her  dress,  and  broke  off.  "  I  am  sorry,"  she  said. 

"  Can't  yer  use  yer  eyes  !  "  said  the  boy  rudely. 

Then  April  said  to  Nancy :  "  Smile ! "  And  she 
smiled,  dimpling,  and  said  again :  "  I  am  sorry." 

The  boy  looked  at  her,  and  turned  his  tongue  round  in 
his  mouth ;  then  he  sniffed,  and  said  :  "  Here  you  are ! 
This  is  for  you." 

He  pushed  the  bunch  of  flowers  into  Nancy's  hand, 
then  turned  back,  and  went  round  the  corner  again, 
whistling.  Nancy  ran  after  him,  but  he  ran  quicker, 
looking  round  every  now  and  then  and  laughing  at  her. 
When  he  turned  another  corner  Nancy  stood  with  the 
flowers  in  her  hand,  wondering. 

She  opened  the  paper  a  little  at  the  top,  and  looked  in. 
Mauve  orchids  and  maidenhair  —  a  bouquet  for  a  queen. 
She  walked  slowly  back  to  her  house,  carrying  the  flowers 
in  front  of  her  with  both  hands,  and  their  idle  beauty  and 
extravagant  loveliness  lifted  her  prostrate  spirit  above 
the  dust  around  her. 

She  went  to  her  room  with  them,  avoiding  Minna,  who 
was  clattering  dishes  in  the  kitchen,  and,  locking  her 
door,  sat  down  near  the  bed.  She  drew  the  tissue-paper 


THE  DEVOUKERS  207 

away,  and  the  fairy-like  flowers,  scintillant  and  bedewed, 
nodded  at  her. 

In  their  midst  lay  a  letter,  with  the  crest  of  a  Trans- 
atlantic steamship  on  the  envelope.  She  opened  it  with 
timid  hands. 

"  DEAR  UNKNOWN  IN  THE  PALE  PLUS  DRESS, 

"I  am  sending  this  to  you  as  a  child  sends  a 
walnut-shell  boat  sailing  down  a  river.  Where  will  it  go 
to  ?  Whom  will  it  reach  ?  I  am  leaving  America  to- 
day. By  the  time  you  read  this  —  are  you  smiling  with 
wondering  eyes  ?  or  is  your  mouth  grave,  and  your  heart 
subdued  ?  —  I  shall  be  throbbing  away  to  Europe  on 
board  the  Lusitania,  and  we  shall  probably  never  meet. 
But  I  am  superstitious.  As  I  drove  down  to  the  steamer 
just  now  the  words  that  are  often  in  my  mind  when  I 
travel  sprang  with  loud  voices  to  my  ear  : 

" '  Dort  wo  du  nicht  bist,  dort  ist  dein  Glilck.' 

"  Do  you  know  German  ? 

"  '  There  where  thou  art  not,  is  thy  happiness.' 

"I  am  leaving  America  because  I  hate  it,  and  have 
never  been  happy  here ;  probably  my  happiness  was 
meanwhile  in  Europe,  or  Asia,  or  Australia.  But  what, 
now  that  I  am  going  to  Europe,  if  my  happiness  were 
in  America  after  all  ?  What  if  I  were  driving  away  from 
it,  taking  ships  and  sailing  from  it,  catching  trains  and 
leaving  it  behind?  I  stopped  the  cab,  and  got  these 
flowers  on  chance. 

"  The  steward  has  called  a  messenger,  an  impish  boy 
with  a  crooked  mouth.  He  stands  here  waiting. 

"I  look  at  him,  and  like  to  think  that  you  will  see 
him  too.  But  you  ?  How  shall  we  find  you,  the  flowers, 
and  my  heart,  and  the  messenger-boy  ? 


208  THE   DEVOURERS 

"  I  shall  tell  him  to  stop  the  first  girl  he  meets  who  is 
dressed  in  light  blue.  That  is  you.  And  I  reason  that 
if  you  wear  a  light  blue  dress  you  must  be  young ;  and  if 
you  are  young  you  are  happy  ;  and  if  you  are  happy  you 
are  kind ;  and  if  you  are  kind  you  will  write  to  me,  who 
am  a  lonely,  crabbed,  and  crusty  man. 

"  My  address  is  the  Metropole,  London. 

"ROBERT  BEAUCHAMP  LEESE." 

Nancy  placed  the  letter  on  the  bed  beside  the  flowers ; 
she  sat  a  long  time,  with  folded  hands,  looking  at  them. 
They  brought  but  one  message  to  her  eyes  that  were 
vexed  with  shabbiness,  to  her  soul  that  was  shrunk  by 
privation  —  riches. 

They  belonged  to  another  sphere.  They  had  come  up 
the  wrong  street,  into  the  wrong  house.  If  they  could 
have  life  and  motion  they  would  rise  quickly  —  Nancy 
could  imagine  them  —  lifting  dainty  skirts  and  tripping 
hurriedly  out  from  the  sordid  flat. 

Nancy  laid  her  cheek  near  to  the  delicate  petals,  and 
her  hand  on  the  letter.  Her  fancy  played  with  an 
answer  —  an  answer  that  should  startle  him,  surprise  him. 

"  How  shall  I  hold  you,  fix  you,  freeze  you, 
Break  my  heart  at  your  feet  to  please  you  ! .  .  ." 

Yes,  she  could  quote  Browning  to  him,  and  Heine ;  she 
could  paint  a  fantastic  picture  of  her  light  blue  gown, 
against  which  the  mauve  orchids  melted  in  divine  dis- 
sonance of  colour ;  she  would  be  wearing  with  it  a  large 
black  hat,  with  feathers  curving  over  a  shading  velvet 
brim.  .  .  . 

She  sighed,  and  went  to  the  rickety  bamboo-table, 
where  the  inkstand  stood  on  a  cracked  plate,  and  the 
ivory  pen  lay  in  demoralized  familiarity,  with  a  red 


THE   DEVOUKERS  209 

wooden  penholder  belonging  to  Anne-Marie.  On  the 
cheap  notepaper  which  she  used  when  she  wrote  to 
borrow  a  saucepan  from  Mrs.  Schmidl,  or  to  ask  Mrs. 
Johnstone  to  wait  until  next  week,  she  wrote  : 

"  DEAR  SIR, 

"  The  wrong  girl  got  your  letter.     I  was  dressed  in 
brown." 

She  did  not  sign  her  name,  but  she  read  his  letter  over 
again,  and,  seeing  that  he  was  lonely,  and  crabbed,  and 
crusty,  she  added  her  address. 

He  answered  to  "Miss  'brown'"  at  the  address  she 
had  given  him,  and  he  began  his  letter:  "Dear  wrong 
girl,  write  to  me  again."  And  she  wrote  back  to  say 
that  indeed  she  would  not  dream  of  writing  to  him. 

He  replied  thanking  her,  and  asking  if  she  were  not  the 
Miss  Brown  he  had  met  on  board  ship  sixteen  years  ago, 
who  had  been  so  kind  and  maternal  to  him,  and  had 
then  had  smallpox  so  badly.  He  hoped  and  believed  she 
was  that  Miss  Brown. 

Nancy  felt  that  she  must  tell  him  she  was  not  that 
Miss  Brown.  And  she  did  so.  And  there  the  corre- 
spondence ended.  At  least,  so  she  told  herself  as  she  ran 
up  the  stairs  after  posting  her  letter  at  the  corner  of  the 
street. 

She  was  alone  that  evening,  as  so  often.  The  piano- 
lamp  was  lit.  The  little  china  clock  on  the  mantelpiece 
ticked  time  away  like  a  hurrying  heart,  and  Nancy 
suddenly  realized  that  life  was  passing  quickly,  and  that 
she  was  not  living.  She  was  shut  up  in  the  dusky  little 
flat  with  Mr.  Johnstone,  and  was  as  dead  as  he.  A  fierce 
excitement  overcame  her  suddenly,  like  a  gust  of  wind, 


210  THE  DEVOUKERS 

like  a  flame  of  fire  —  regret  for  her  wasted  talents,  resent- 
ment against  her  fate,  hatred  of  the  poverty  that  was 
crippling  and  maiming  and  crushing  her.  What  was 
she  doing  ?  Was  she  asleep  ?  was  she  drugged  ?  was 
she  dreaming  ?  What  had  come  over  her  that  she  could 
let  herself  drift  down  into  the  nameless  obscurity,  the 
sullen  ignominy  of  despair  ? 

When  midnight  struck,  Nancy  leaped  from  her  chair 
as  one  who  is  called  by  a  loud  voice.  Life  was  rushing 
past  her ;  she  would  wake,  and  go  too.  Some  old  French 
verses  came  into  her  head  about  "  la  belle  "  who  wanted 
to  enter  the  "blue  garden";  who  passed  it  in  the 
morning,  and  looked  in  through  the  open  gates. 

"  La  belle  qui  veut, 
La  belle  qui  n'ose, 
Cueillir  les  roses 
Du  jardin  bleu." 

And  she  passed  at  noon,  and  looked  in  through  the 
open  gates : 

"  La  belle  qui  veut, 
La  belle  qui  n'ose, 
Cueillir  les  roses 
Du  jardin  bleu." 

In  the  evening  she  said:  "Now  I  will  enter."  But 
she  found  that  the  gates  were  closed. 

"  La  belle  qui  veut, 
La  belle  qui  n'ose, 
Cueillir  les  roses 
Du  jardin  bleu." 

Some  characters  evolve  slowly,  by  imperceptible  gra- 
dations, as  a  rose  opens  or  a  bird  puts  on  its  feathers. 
But  Nancy  broke  through  her  chrysalis-shell  in  an  hour. 
From  one  day  to  the  next  the  gentle,  submissive  Nancy 


THE   DEVOURERS  211 

was  no  more ;  the  passive,  childlike  soul  clothed  in  the 
simplicity  of  genius  died  that  night  —  for  no  other  reason 
but  that  her  hour  had  come  —  drifted  off,  perhaps,  in  the 
little  dreamboat  of  her  childhood,  where  Baby  Bunting 
sat  at  the  helm  waiting  for  her.  And  together  they  went 
back,  afloat  on  the  darkness,  to  the  Isle  of  What  is  No 

More. 

*  *  *  *  # 

"  DEAR  UNKNOWN, 

"You  are  very  persistent.  Is  it  not  enough  to 
know  who  I  am  not,  that  you  needs  must  want  to  know 
who  I  am  ?  What's  in  a  name  ?  A  woman  by  any  other 
name  would  be  as  false. 

"  Then  call  me,  if  call  me  you  will,  by  the  sweeping, 
impersonal,  fragile  name  of  Eve.  And  picture  me  as 
Eve,  with  the  serpent  coiled  round  her  neck  like  a  boa, 
and  the  after-glimmer  of  a  lost  Paradise  in  her  tranquil 
eyes.  The  tranquil  eyes  are  blue,  under  dark  hair. 

"What!  more  questions?  Yes,  I  am  young  —  not 
disconcertingly  so.  And  good-tempered  —  not  monoto- 
nously so.  And  almost  pretty  —  not  distractingly  so. 

"  And  I  write  to  you,  not  because  I  am  temerarious, 
but  because  the  month  is  April  and  the  time  is  twilight. 
And  you  are  the  Unknown." 

The  Unknown  answered.  And  she  wrote  to  him  again. 
She  put  all  her  fancies  and  all  her  phrases  into  the  letters. 
She  wrote  him  lies  and  truth.  She  described  herself  to 
him  as  she  thought  she  was  not  —  but  as  perhaps  she  > 

really   was.     In   her  letters   she  was  a  spoilt  butterfly, v 

whirling  through  life  with  vivid  wings. 

As  she  wrote  she  grew  to  resemble  the  girl  she  wrote 
about.  She  borrowed  money  from  Peggy  and  from 


212  THE  DEVOURERS 

George,  who  had  fallen  in  love  with  her.  She  would 
pay  it  back  some  day.  She  bought  clothes,  and  ran  up 
debts,  and  signed  notes,  and  resorted  to  expedients.  All 
the  cleverness  that  should  have  gone  into  her  book  she 
used  in  her  everyday  life  to  wrench  herself  free  from 
the  poverty  that  was  choking  her.  "  Nothing  matters ! 
Nothing  matters !  "  Only  to  get  out  of  the  mire  and  the 
mud  —  to  lift  little  Anne-Marie  out  of  the  hideous  sur- 
roundings, to  stand  her  up  safe  and  high  in  the  light,  out 
of  reach  of  the  sordid  struggle. 

One  day  —  a  chilly  afternoon  in  May  —  Aldo  did  not 
come  home.  Minna  had  gone  to  fetch  Anne-Marie  from 
school,  when  a  messenger  rang  and  gave  Nancy  a  sealed 
letter. 

In  it  Aldo  said  the  chance  of  his  life  had  come,  and 
that  he  could  not  throw  it  aside  —  no !  for  her  own  sake, 
and  for  the  child's,  he  would  not  do  so.  He  thought  not 
of  himself.  His  thwarted  ambitions,  his  warped  talents, 
his  stifled  nature,  had  cried  for  a  wider  horizon.  But  not 
for  this  was  he  taking  so  grave  a  step.  One  day  she 
would  know  how  he  was  sacrificing  himself  for  her  sake. 
And  he  would  open  his  arms,  and  she  would  fall  on  his 
breast  and  thank  him.  (Here  was  a  blur  —  where  Aldo's 
tear  had  fallen.)  And  he  enclosed  five  hundred  dollars. 
She  was  to  be  careful,  as  five  hundred  dollars  was  a  large 
sum  —  two  tho\isand  five  hundred  francs.  And  she  might 
take  a  smaller  flat,  and  pay  Minna  eight  dollars  a  month 
instead  of  ten.  And  she  had  better  not  write  about  this 
to  Italy,  as  probably  in  a  few  months'  time  everything 
would  be  explained,  and  now  farewell,  and  the  Saints 
protect  them !  And  she  was  to  pray  for  him.  And  he 
was  for  ever  her  unhappy  Aldo. 

The  messenger  had  darted  off  as  soon  as  she  had  signed 


THE  DEVOURERS  213 

his  receipt,  and  Nancy  sat  down,  rigid  and  dazed,  with 
her  letter  and  the  five-hundred-dollar  bill  in  her  hand. 

Aldo  was  not  coming  back.  Aldo  had  left  her  and  the 
child  to  struggle  through  life  alone.  All  that  day  she 
carried  her  heart  cold  and  stern  as  a  rock  in  her  delicate 
breast. 

In  the  evening  she  went  into  his  room.  True,  it  was 
a  mean  and  miserable  room.  Everything  in  it  —  from  the 
small  window  that  looked  out  on  a  dark,  damp  wall  to 
the  torn  carpet,  from  the  crooked  folding-bedstead  to 
the  broken  piece  of  mirror  leaning  against  the  wall  on  the 
narrow  mantelpiece  — everything  was  horrible,  everything 
was  good  to  get  away  from.  Nancy  looked  round,  and 
pity  drove  the  stinging  tears  to  her  eyes.  Poor  Aldo ! 
What  had  Aldo  had,  after  all,  to  come  home  to  ?  Not 
love.  For  the  love  that  would  have  carried  them  through 
and  over  such  wretchedness  was  not  in  Nancy's  heart. 
Her  love  for  him  had  been  all  for  his  beauty ;  her  love 
had  been  a  delicate,  sensitive,  blow-away  creature,  half 
ghost,  half  angel,  whom  to  wound  was  to  kill.  And  Fate 
had  amused  itself  by  throwing  bricks  and  bats  at  it, 
choking  it  under  mountains  of  ugliness,  kicking  it 
through  crowded  streets,  dragging  it  up  squalid  stairs. 
.  .  .  When  Nancy  drew  the  sheet  from  its  face,  she  saw 
that  it  had  been  dead  a  long  time.  And  she  was  sorry 
for  Aldo. 

She  pulled  his  trunk  out  from  under  the  bed,  and 
remorsefully  and  compassionately  put  all  his  things  into 
it  —  his  books,  his  broken  comb  and  cheap  brushes,  his 
old  patent-leather  shoes  that  he  wore  about  the  house 
instead  of  slippers,  some  packets  of  cigarettes.  When 
she  opened  his  dark  cupboard,  and  saw  that  all  the  new 
clothes  had  been  taken  away,  she  smiled  with  a  little 


214  THE   DEVOUKERS 

sigh,  and  remembered  how  pale  he  had  looked  when  he 
said  good-bye  that  morning. 

How  had  he  got  those  five  hundred  dollars  to  give  her  ? 
She  knelt  down  suddenly  beside  the  open  trunk,  and  said 
a  prayer  for  him,  as  he  had  wished  her  to  do.  When  she 
rose  and  shut  the  trunk,  she  shut  in  it  the  memory  of 
Aldo,  that  was  not  to  be  with  her  any  more. 

Anne-Marie  hardly  noticed  her  father's  absence, 
talking  of  him  occasionally  in  the  airy,  detached  manner 
of  children ;  but  Minna  went  for  a  week  with  red  eyes  and 
swollen  face.  And  after  a  while  the  accounts  rose  with 
a  rush. 

Nancy  paid  all  her  debts,  bought  some  clothes,  and 
gave  Mrs.  Johnstone  notice.  She  engaged  a  suite  in 
a  fashionable  boarding-house  on  Lexington  Avenue. 
Peggy  and  George  stayed  with  her  the  last  day  in  the 
flat,  and  helped  her  with  her  packing ;  but  in  the  evening 
they  went  back  to  their  rooms,  for  they  were  expecting 
a  friend  —  Mr.  Markowski,  a  Pole  —  who  was  to  come  and 
make  music  with  George. 

Anne-Marie  was  asleep,  and  Nancy  sat  down  in  the 
denuded  room  where  everything  belonging  to  her  had 
already  been  put  away.  The  dead  Mr.  Johnstone  looked 
sadly  at  her,  and  even  the  piano-lamp  was  bland  and 
dulcet,  shining  on  the  roses  that  George  had  brought  her. 

The  postman's  double  knock  startled  her,  and  she  re- 
ceived from  his  hand  a  letter.  Aldo  ?  No.  It  came 
from  England,  and  was  addressed  to  "  Miss  Brown." 
She  called  the  grinning  postman  in,  and  gave  him  half  a 
dollar.  Thank  you.  He  would  see  that  all  them  "  Miss 
Brown  "  letters  and  any  others  were  brought  to  her  new 
address.  She  opened  the  letter;  the  large,  well-known 
handwriting  was  pleasant  to  her  eyes.  The  little  crest  of 


THE  DEVOURERS  215 

the  Grand  Hotel  spoke  to  her  of  cheerful,  well-remem- 
bered things.  She  seemed  to  look  through  its  round 
gold  ring  as  through  an  opera-glass,  that  showed  her  far- 
away things  she  knew  and  loved.  "  Hotel  Metropole." 
She  imagined  the  brilliantly  lit  lounge,  the  gaily-gowned, 
laughing  women  rustling  past  with  the  leisurely,  well- 
groomed  men ;  the  soft-footed,  obsequious  waiters ;  the 
ready,  low-bowing  porter ;  the  willing,  hurrying  page- 
boys ;  and  beyond  the  revolving  glass  doors  London, 
bright,  brilliant,  luxurious,  rolling  to  its  pleasures. 
She  sat  down  and  answered  the  Unknown's  letter : 

"  The  room  is  closed  and  warm  and  silent.  The  lamp 
and  the  fire  give  a  mellow  glow  to  the  heavy  old-rose 
curtains,  and  to  the  soft-tinted  arabesques  on  the  carpet. 
Some  large  pale  roses  are  leaning  drowsily  over  their 
vase,  and  dreaming  their  scented  souls  away. 

"  I  am  smoking  a  Russian  cigarette  (with  a  soup$on  of 
white  heliotrope  added  to  its  fragrance),  and  writing  to 
you. 

"My  unknown  friend!  Are  you  worthy  of  com- 
panionship with  the  scent  of  my  roses  and  the  smoke  of 
my  cigarette  —  such  delicate,  unselfish  things  ?  .  .  ." 

A  piercing  cry  from  the  adjoining  room  made  Nancy 
leap  from  her  chair.  Penholder  in  hand,  she  rushed 
into  Anne-Marie's  room.  The  child,  a  slip  of  white,  was 
standing  on  her  bed,  pale  of  cheek,  wild  of  eye,  one  hand 
extended  towards  the  wall.  Her  tumbled  hair  stood 
yellow  and  flame-like  round  her  head. 

"  Listen  ! "  she  gasped  —  "  listen !  "  And  Nancy 
stopped  and  listened. 

Clearly  and  sweetly  through  the  wall  came  the  voice  of 
a  violin.  Then  the  piano  struck  in,  accompanying  the 


216  THE  DEVOURERS 

"Romance"  of  Svendseu.  Anne-Marie  stood  like  a 
little  wild  prophetess,  with  her  hand  stretched  out. 
Then  she  whispered :  "  It  is  the  lovely  piece  —  the  lovely 
piece  that  he  could  not  remember !  " 

"  It  is  a  violin,  darling,"  said  Nancy,  and  sat  down  on 
the  bed. 

But  Anne-Marie  was  listening,  and  did  not  move. 
Nancy  drew  the  blanket  over  the  little  bare  feet,  and  put 
her  arm  round  the  slight,  nightgowned  figure. 

The  last  long-drawn  note  ended ;  then  Anne-Marie 
moved.  She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  began 
to  cry. 

"  Why  do  you  cry,  darling  —  why  do  you  cry  ?  "  asked 
Nancy  embracing  her. 

Anne-Marie's  large  eyes  gazed  at  Nancy.  "  For  many 
things — for  many  things !  "  she  said.  And  Nancy  for  the 
first  time  felt  that  her  child's  spirit  stood  alone,  beyond 
her  reach  and  out  of  her  keeping. 

"  Is  it  the  music,  dear  ?  " 

Anne-Marie  held  her  tight,  and  did  not  answer.  Nancy 
coaxed  her  back  to  bed,  and  soon  tucked  her  up  and  left 
her.  But  the  door  between  them  was  kept  wide  open, 
and  the  sound  of  Grieg's  "Berceuse"  and  Handel's 
"  Minuet "  reached  Nancy  at  her  table,  and  helped  her 
to  add  fantastic  details  to  her  letter. 

The  next  morning  they  moved  to  the  boarding-house 
in  Lexington  Avenue.  They  did  not  see  George,  who 
had  already  gone  down-town  to  his  shipping  office; 
but  Peggy  helped  them  into  the  carriage,  and  with 
Minna  ran  up  and  down  the  stairs  after  forgotten 
parcels. 

"What's  wrong  with  the  kiddy?  She  don't  look 
festive,"  said  Peggy,  handing  a  hoop  and  a  one-legged 


THE  DEVOURERS  217 

policeman,  survivor  of  the  Schmidt's  Punch-and-Judy 
show,  into  the  carriage  to  Anne-Marie. 

"Your  music  yesterday  excited  her  very  much,"  said 
Nancy.  "  She  liked  the  violin." 

"  Oh,  that  was  Markowski.  He's  a  funny  old  toad," 
said  Peggy  ;  and  she  got  on  to  the  carriage-step  to  kiss 
Anne-Marie.  But  Anne-Marie  covered  her  face,  and 
turned  her  head  away.  She  seemed  to  be  crying,  and 
Peggy  winked  at  Nancy,  and  said ;  "  She's  a  queer  little 
kid."  And  Nancy  said,  "  She  does  not  like  good-byes." 
Then  Minna  got  into  the  carriage  with  the  cage  of  Anne- 
Marie's  waltzing  mice,  for  she  was  going  to  the  board- 
ing-house with  them  to  help  unpack. 

"  Good-bye !  Au  revoir !  Come  and  see  us  soon  ! " 
.  .  .  The  carriage  rumbled  off.  Minna  had  counted 
and  recounted  on  her  fingers  how  many  things  they  had, 
and  how  many  things  they  had  forgotten,  when  Anne- 
Marie  raised  her  red  face  from  her  hands. 

"  I  do  like  good-byes,"  she  said.  "  But  why  did  she 
say  an  old  toad  did  the  music  ?  " 

Nancy  comforted  her,  and  said  it  did  not  matter,  and 
they  were  going  to  a  nice,  nice,  nice  new  house. 

The  nice  new  house  was  expecting  them,  and  a  cheeky, 
pimply  German  page-boy  took  their  packages  up.  He 
was  rough  with  the  hoop  and  the  policeman,  and  held  his 
nose  as  he  carried  up  the  waltzing  mice.  But  the  room 
they  were  to  have  was  large  and  sunny,  and  everything 
was  bright. 

They  went  down  to  luncheon,  and  sat  down  at  a  table 
with  many  strangers.  Anne-Marie,  who  thought  it  was 
a  party,  was  very  shy  in  the  beginning  and  very  noisy  at 
the  end  of  the  meal.  The  boarders  were  the  kith  and  kin 
of  all  boarding-house  guests.  There  was  the  silent  old 


218  THE   DEVOUKERS 

gentleman  and  the  loud  young  man ;  the  estimable  couple 
that  kept  themselves  to  themselves ;  and  the  lady  with  the 
sulphur-coloured  hair  who  did  not  keep  herself  to  herself. 
There  was  the  witty  man  and  the  sour  woman;  there 
were  the  ill-behaved  children,  that  quarrelled  all  day 
and  danced  skirt-dances  in  the  drawing-room  at  night; 
and  their  ineffectual  mother  and  harassed  father.  There 
was  also  the  Frenchman,  the  two  Swedish  girls,  and  the 
German  lady. 

The  German  lady  sat  opposite  Nancy,  and,  having 
looked  at  her  and  at  Anne-Marie  once,  continued  to  do 
so  at  intervals  all  during  lunch.  Every  time  Nancy 
raised  her  eyes  she  met  those  of  the  German  lady  fixed 
upon  her.  They  were  kindly,  inquisitive  brown  eyes 
behind  glasses.  Nobody  spoke  to  Nancy  at  luncheon, 
the  sulphur-haired  lady  and  the  witty  man  talking  most 
of  the  time  of  their  own  affairs  and  their  opinion  of 
Sarah  Bernhardt.  Nancy  was  kept  busy  telling  Anne- 
Marie  in  Italian  not  to  stare  at  the  two  little  girls, 
who  seemed  to  fascinate  her  by  their  execrable 
behaviour. 

In  the  evening  Nancy  went  down  to  dinner  alone. 
After  the  soup  the  German  lady  spoke  to  her. 

"I  hope  the  little  girl  is  quite  well,"  she  said, 
nodding  towards  the  empty  place  near  Nancy. 

"  Oh  yes,  thank  you.  She  has  early  supper  and  goes 
to  bed." 

"That  is  English  habit,"  said  the  German  lady. 
"  Were  you  in  England  ?  " 

"  When  I  was  a  child,"  said  Nancy. 

Then  the  fish  came ;  and  always  Nancy  felt  the  brown 
eyes  behind  the  glasses  fixed  on  her  face.  At  the  mutton 
the  German  lady  spoke  again : 


THE  DEVOURERS  219 

"I  heard  you  speak  Italian/'  she  said.  "Are  you 
from  il  bel  paese  ove  il  si  suona  ?  "  . 

Nancy  laughed  and  said  :  "  My  mother  was  Italian. 
My  father  was  English.  I  was  born  in  Davos,  in  Switzer- 
land." For  some  unaccountable  reason  the  German 
lady  flushed  deeply.  She  did  not  speak  again  until  the 
sago  pudding  had  gone  round  twice  and  the  fruit  once  — 
very  quickly. 

"  You  speak  German  ?  "  she  said. 

"  I  had  a  German  governess,"  said  Nancy. 

Again  the  German  lady's  smooth  cheeks  flushed. 
Then  every  one  rose  and  went  into  the  drawing-room, 
and  Nancy  went  to  her  room  and  wrote  to  the  Unknown. 

"  You  ask  me  to  talk  about  myself.  Nothing  pleases 
me  better ;  for  I  am  selfish  and  subjective. 

"  I  am  a  gambler.  I  went  to  Monte  Carlo  some  time 
ago.  Oh,  golden-voiced,  green-eyed  Koulette  !  I 
gambled  away  all  my  money  and  all  the  money  of  every- 
one else  that  I  could  lay  hands  on.  I  laid  hands  on  a 
good  deal.  I  have  rather  pretty  hands. 

"  I  am  a  dreamer.  I  have  wandered  out  in  deserted 
country  roads  dreaming  of  you,  my  unknown  hero,  and 
of  Uhland's  mysterious  forests,  and  of  Maeterlinck's  lost 
princesses,  until  I  could  feel  the  warmth  welling  up  at  the 
back  of  my  eyes,  which  is  the  nearest  approach  to  tears 
that  is  vouchsafed  me. 

"  I  am  a  heathen.  I  have  a  hot,  unruly  worship  for 
everything  beautiful,  man,  woman,  or  thing.  I  believe 
in  Joy  ;  I  trust  in  Happiness  ;  I  adore  Pleasure. 

"  I  am  a  savage  —  an  overcivilized,  hypercultivated 
savage  with  some  of  the  growls  and  the  hankerings  after 
feathers  still  left  in  him.  I  adore  jewels.  I  have  some 


220  THE  DEVOURERS 

diamonds  —  diamonds  with  blue  eyes  and  white  smiles  — 
as  large  as  my  heart.  No,  no !  larger !  I  wear  them  at 
all  seasons  and  everywhere ;  round  my  throat,  my  arms, 
my  ankles,  all  over  me !  I  like  men  to  wear  jewels.  If 
ever  I  fall  in  love  with  you,  I  shall  insist  upon  your  wear- 
ing rings  up  to  your  finger-tips.  Do  not  protest,  or  I  will 
not  fall  in  love  with  you. 

"  I  am  feminine ;  over-  and  ultra-feminine.  I  wear 
nothing  but  fluffinesses  —  trailing,  lacey,  blow-away  fluffi- 
nesses,  floppy  hats  on  my  soft  hair,  and  flimsy  scarves  on 
my  small  shoulders.  I  have  no  views.  I  belong  to  no 
clubs.  I  drink  no  cocktails  —  or,  when  I  do,  I  make 
delicious  little  grimaces  over  them,  and  say  they  burn. 
They  do  burn!  I  smoke  Russian  cigarettes  scented 
with  white  heliotrope,  because  surely  no  man  would 
dream  of  doing  such  a  sickening  thing. 

"I  am  careless;  I  am  extravagant;  I  am  lazy  —  oh, 
exceedingly  lazy.  I  envy  La  Belle  au  Bois  dormant, 
who  slept  a  hundred  years.  Until  Prince  Charming  .  .  . 

"  Good-bye,  Prince  Charming. 

"Eva." 

XI 

THE  next  day  at  luncheon  the  German  lady  stared  again, 
and  looked  away  quickly. 

Anne-Marie  asked  her  mother :  "  What  is  Irish  stew 
when  he  is  alive  ?  "  Nancy  smiled  and  dimpled.  Then 
the  German  lady,  who  had  seen  the  dimple  and  the  smile, 
said  in  a  sudden,  loud  voice,  over  which  she  had  no 
control :  "  Is  your  name  Nancy  ?  " 

Nancy  looked  up  with  a  start.  "Yes!"  she  said. 
And  everyone  was  silent. 

"  My  name  is  Fraiilein  Miiller,"  said  the  German  lady, 


THE   DEVOUKERS  221 

taking  a  pink-edged  handkerchief  from  her  pocket  and 
making  ready  for  tears. 

"  Fraulein  Miiller !  Fraulein  Miiller  ! "  said  Nancy 
dreamily.  "You  read  Uhland  to  me,  and  Lenau,  and 
.  .  .  '  shine  out  little  head  sunning  over  with  curls.'" 

Then  Fraulein  Mtiller  wept  in  her  handkerchief,  and 
Nancy  rose  from  her  seat  and  went  round  and  kissed  her. 
Then  it  was  Fraulein  Muller's  turn  to  get  up  and  go  round 
and  kiss  Anne-Marie;  whereupon  the  sulphur-haired 
lady  remarked  how  small  the  world  was ;  and  the  witty 
man  said  they  would  next  discover  that  he  and  she  were 
brother  and  sister,  and  had  she  not  a  strawberry  mark  on 
her  left  shoulder  ? 

After  lunch  Fraulein  Miiller  asked  Nancy  to  her  room, 
and  she  held  Anne-Marie  on  her  lap,  and  had  to  say  the 
baby  rhyme,  "  Da  hast  du  'nen  Thaler,  geh'  auf  den 
Markt "  about  fifty  times,  with  the  accompanying  play 
on  Anne-Marie's  pink,  outstretched  palm,  before  she  was 
allowed  to  talk  to  Nancy.  Then  she  told  them  all  about 
the  years  she  had  passed  in  an  American  family  after 
leaving  the  Grey  House,  and  about  the  little  house  she 
had  just  rented  on  Staten  Island  —  a  tiny  little  house  in 
a  garden,  where  she  was  going  to  live  for  the  rest  of  her 
life.  She  was  furnishing  it  now,  and  it  would  be  ready 
next  week. 

"  You  must  come  to  see  it.  You  must  stay  with  me 
there,"  said  Fraulein  Miiller,  looking  for  a  dry  spot  on 
the  sodden  handkerchief.  "  Oh,  meine  kleine  Nancy ! 
My  little  Genius !  Und  was  ist  mit  der  Poesie  ?  " 

The  following  week  Fraulein  Mtiller  left  Lexington 
Avenue  for  her  "  Gartenhaus,"  as  she  called  it,  and  three 
days  later  Nancy  and  Anne-Marie  went  to  stay  with  her 
for  a  fortnight. 


222  THE  DEVOURERS 

"  What  for  an  education  has  the  child  ?  "  inquired  the 
old  governess,  when  Anne-Marie  had  been  put  to  bed 
after  a  day  of  wonders.  What  ?  Strawberries  grew  on 
plants  ?  Anne-Marie  had  always  thought  they  came  in 
baskets. 

"  She  seems  to  know  nothing,"  said  Fraulein  Muller. 
"  I  tried  her  with  a  little  arithmetic.  Did  she  know  the 
metric  system  ?  Oh  yes,  she  said  she  did,  and  wanted  to 
speak  about  something  else.  But  I  kept  her  to  it,"  said 
Fraulein  sternly,  "  and  asked  her :  '  What  are  milli- 
metres ? '  Do  you  know  what  the  child  said  ?  She  said 
that  she  supposed  they  were  relations  of  the  centipedes ! " 

Nancy  laughed,  and  told  Fraulein  Muller  about  the 
Sixth  Avenue  School.  Fraulein  clasped  horrified  hands. 

"  I  will  educate  her  myself.  I  suppose  she  is  also  a 
genius." 

"  No,  I  am  afraid  not,"  said  Nancy,  shaking  her  head 
regretfully.  "  I  wish  she  were  ! " 

The  two  women  were  silent ;  and  from  the  little  bed- 
room upstairs,  through  the  open  window,  came  Anne- 
Marie's  voice,  like  tinkling  water. 

"  She  is  singing,"  said  Fraulein  Muller. 

"  Oh  yes ;  she  always  sings  herself  to  sleep.  She  likes 
music."  And  Nancy  told  her  about  the  violin. 

"  We  shall  buy  her  a  violin  to-morrow,"  said  Fraulein 
Muller. 

And  so  she  did.  The  violin  was  new  and  bright  and 
brown ;  it  was  labelled  "  Guarnerius,"  and  cost  three 
dollars.  Anne-Marie  pushed  the  bow  up  and  down  on  it 
with  great  pleasure  for  a  short  time.  Then  she  became 
very  impatient,  and  took  it  out  into  the  garden,  and 
looked  for  a  large  stone. 

"...  It  made  ugly  voices  at  me,"  she  said,  standing 


THE   DEVOURERS  223 

small  and  unrepentant  by  the  broken  brown  pieces, 
while  Fraulein  Muller  and  Nancy  shook  grieved  heads  at 
her. 

"  I  do  not  think  that  music  is  her  vocation  after  all," 
said  Fraulein  Muller.     "  But  we  shall  see." 


XII 

"  GOOD-MORNING,  my  tenebrious  Unknown.  I  am  in 
the  country,  perched  up  on  a  stone  wall  with  nothing  in 
sight  but  vague,  distant  hills  and  sleepy  fields.  Queer 
insects  buzz  in  the  sun,  and  make  me  feel  pale.  I  dread 
buzzing  insects  with  a  great  shivery  dread. 

"Why  are  you  not  here  ?  I  am  wearing  a  large  straw 
hat  with  blue  ribbons,  and  a  white  dress  and  a  blue  sash, 
like  the  ingenue  in  a  drawing-room  comedy.  And  there 
is  no  one  to  see  me.  And  the  fields  are  full  of  flowers, 
and  I  pick  them,  and  have  no  one  to  give  them  to. 
Surely  it  is  the  time  in  all  good  story-books  when  the 
heroine  in  a  white  dress  and  blue  sash  is  sitting  on  a  wall 
for  Prince  Charming  to  pass  and  see  her,  and  stop  sud- 
denly. .  .  .  But  life  is  a  badly  constructed  novel ;  un- 
interesting people  walk  in  and  walk  out,  and  all  is  at 
contra-tempo,  like  a  Brahms  Hungarian  Dance. 

"  Prince  Charming,  why  have  you  gone  three  thousand 

miles  away  ?  " 

*  *  *  *  * 

"  Good-morning  again. 

"  This  is  a  divine  day  —  cool  winds  and  curtseying 
grasses. 

"I  am  still  here,  living  on  herbs  and  sunsets  and 
memories  of  things  that  have  not  been.  You  are  a  thing 
that  has  not  been.  Perhaps  that  is  why  you  are  so 


224  THE  DEVOURERS 

much  in  my  thoughts.  I  have  many  friends  whom  I 
seldom  think  of.  I  have  a  few  lovers  whom  I  never 
think  of.  And  I  have  you  who  are  nothing,  and  whom 
I  always  think  of.  It  is  absurd  and  wonderful. 

"  My  lovers !  You  ask  me  who  they  are  and  why  I 
have  them.  I  have  them  because  they  make  me  look 
pretty.  I  look  pretty  when  I  laugh.  A  woman's  beauty 
depends  entirely  upon  how  much  she  is  loved.  Did  you 
not  know  that  ?  The  best  '  fard  pour  la  beaute  des 
dames '  is  other  people's  adoration. 

"  My  lovers  therefore  have  their  use,  but  they  are  not 
entertaining.  They  are  uniformly  sad  or  angry.  Yet  I 
am  good  to  my  lovers.  I  let  them  trot  in  and  out  of  their 
tempers  like  nice  tame  animals  that  nobody  need  mind. 
I  do  not  require  them  to  perform  in  public ;  I  sit  and 
watch  their  innocent  tricks  with  kind  and  wondering 
eyes. 

"  Et  vous,  mon  Prince  Charmant  ?  What  of  you  ? 
Who  are  you  making  to  look  prettier  ?  Whose  cheeks 
are  you  tinting?  Whose  eyes  are  you  brightening? 
Whose  heart  are  you  making  to  nutter  by  the  hurry  of 
yours  ?  Who  smiles  and  dimples  and  blushes  for  your 
sake  ?  I  suppose  you  are  falling  in  love  with  your  fail- 
country  women  —  tall,  tennis-playing  English  girls,  with 
cool,  unkissed  mouths  and  white,  inexperienced  hands. 
Ah,  Prince  Charming,  whom  do  you  love  ? 

"  EVE." 

He  replied:  "You  have  spoken.  Whom  do  I  love? 
Eve." 

She  was  glad.  She  lived  a  life  of  fevered  joy.  She 
was  not  Nancy.  She  was  the  Girl  in  the  Letters ;  and 
the  Girl  in  the  Letters  was  a  wild,  unfettered,  happy 


THE  DEVOURERS  225 

creature.  Nothing  seemed  sweeter  to  her  than  this 
subtle  amor  di  lontano  —  this  love  across  the  distance. 
Ah,  how  modern  and  piquant  and  recherche !  And, 
again,  how  thirteenth-century !  Was  it  not  Jaufre 
Rudel,  the  Poet-Prince,  who  had  loved  the  unseen 
Countess  Melisenda  for  so  many  years? 

"  Amore  di  terra  lontana, 
Per  voi  tutto  il  core  mi  duol," 

and  who  at  last,  coming  to  her,  had  died  at  her  feet  ? 
Could  they  not  also  love  each  other  across  the  distance, 
wildly  and  blindly,  without  the  aid  of  any  one  of  their 
senses  ?  Surely  that  was  the  highest,  the  divinest,  the 
most  perfect  way  of  love  ! 

So  Nancy  lived  her  dream,  and  tossed  the  tender  little 
love-letters  across  the  ocean  with  light  hands. 


"CHER  INCONNU, 

"  I  write  to  you  because  it  is  raining  and  the  sky 
is  of  grey  flannel.  You  will  say  that  I  wrote  to  you  yes- 
terday because  the  weather  was  fine  and  the  sky  was  of 
blue  silk. 

"Ah,  dear  Unknown!  It  is  true.  You  have  grown 
into  my  life,  like  some  strange,  startling  modern  flower, 
out  of  place,  out  of  season,  yet  sweet  to  my  unwondering 
eyes.  You  are  a  black  and  white  flower  of  words, 
growing  through  your  brief  wild  letters  into  the  garden 
of  my  heart. 

"  What  a  garden,  mon  ami !  What  a  growth  of  weeds ! 
what  a  burst  of  roses !  what  a  burgeoning  of  cabbages  ! 
An  unnatural,  degenerate  garden,  where  the  trees  carry 
matrons  glacis  and  the  flowers  are  scented  with 
patchouli. 


226  THE   DEVOURERS 

"Into  this  luxuriance  of  perversity,  this  decadent 
brilliance  of  vegetation,  you  have  blossomed  up,  strange 
and  new,  for  the  delight  of  my  soul.  That  you  should 
say  you  love  me,  you  who  have  never  seen  me,  is  sweeter 
perfume  to  my  sated  senses  than  the  incense  of  all  the 
thousand  seraph-flowers  that  bow  and  swing  at  my  feet. 

"  Good-bye.     My  name  is  Nancy." 

To  this  letter  he  replied  by  cable :  "  Nancy,  come  here 
at  once." 

" f  Come  here  at  once ! '  The  arrogant  words  go  with  a 
shock  of  pleasure  to  my  heart.  I  am  unused  to  the  im- 
perative ;  nobody  has  ever  bullied  me  or  told  me  to  do 
this  and  that.  I  think  I  like  it.  I  like  being  meek  and 
frightened,  and  having  to  obey. 

" '  Come  here  at  once ! '  I  find  myself  timidly  looking 
round  for  my  hat  and  gloves,  and  wondering  whether 
I  shall  wear  my  blue  or  my  grey  dress  on  the  journey. 
I  am  nice  on  journeys.  I  am  good-tempered,  and  wear 
mousie-coloured  clothes  that  fit  well,  and  I  have  a  small 
waist.  All  this  is  very  important  in  travelling,  and 
makes  people  overlook  and  forgive  the  many,  many  small 
packages  I  carry  into  the  compartment,  and  the  hat- 
boxes  I  lose,  and  the  umbrellas  I  forget.  When  I  am 
tired  -I  can  put  my  head  down  anywhere  and  go  to  sleep ; 
I  sleep  nicely  and  quietly  and  purrily,  like  a  cat. 

"I  am  really  very  nice  on  journeys.  Also  I  am  very 
popular  with  useful  people,  like  conductors  and  porters 
and  guards.  They  take  care  of  me  and  give  me  advice, 
and  open  and  shut  my  windows,  and  lock  my  compart- 
ments even  when  it  does  not  matter ;  and  they  bring  me 
things  to  eat,  and  run  after  all  the  satchels  and  parcels 
I  leave  about. 


THE   DEVOURERS  227 

"Your  last  letter  says  you  are  going  to  Switzerland. 
How  nice !  I  should  like  to  be  with  you,  throbbing 
away  on  excitable  little  Channel  steamers,  puffing  along 
in  smoky,  deliberate  Continental  trains,  driving  the  bell- 
shaking  horses  slowly  up  the  wide  white  roads  that  coil 
like  wind-blown  ribbons  round  the  swelling  breasts  of  the 
Alps ;  table-d'hoting  at  St.  Moritz ;  tennis-playing  at 
Maloya ;  clattering  and  rumbling  over  the  covered 
bridges  near  Splugen;  wandering  through  the  moonlike 
sunshine  of  Sufer's  pine-forest,  where  beady-eyed  squir- 
rels stop  and  look,  and  then  scuttle,  tail  flourishing, 
up  the  trees.  I  am  friends  with  every  one  of  those 
squirrels.  Greet  them  from  me. 

"NANCY." 


NEW  YORK. 

"AMOR  MIO  DI  LONTANO, 

"  I  am  in  the  city  again  —  the  horrible,  glaring, 
screaming  city,  all  loud  and  harsh  in  the  uncompromis- 
ing July  sun.  How  I  long  to-day  for  the  shade  of  the 
closed  Italian  houses,  the  friendly,  indrawn  shutters, 
the  sleeping  silence  of  the  empty  streets,  and,  far-off, 
the  cerulean  sweep  of  the  Mediterranean  ! 

"  And  a  new  lover  at  my  side !  A  brand-new  lover, 
whose  voice  would  sound  strange  to  my  ears,  whose  eyes 
I  had  not  fathomed,  whose  feelings  I  did  not  under- 
stand, whose  thoughts  I  could  only  vaguely  and  wrongly 
guess  at,  whose  nerves  would  respond  strangely,  like  an 
unknown  instrument,  to  the  shy  touch  of  my  hand. 

"  Your  letter  is  brought  to  me.  Written  at  the  Hotel 
Bellevue,  Andermatt.  Andermatt!  How  cool  and 
buoyant  and  scintillant  it  sounds.  It  falls  on  my  heart 
like  a  snowflake  in  the  humid  heat  of  this  town. 


228  THE   DEVOURERS 

"  I  have  opened  the  letter.  What  ?  Only  three 
words ! 

"  Again  :  '  Come  at  once.'  Again  the  words,  with  their 
brief,  irresistible  imperiousness,  thrill  my  lazy  soul. 

"  If  you  write  it  a  third  time  ...  by  all  that  is  sweet 
and  unlikely,  I  shall  come ! 

"  Will  you  be  glad  ?  Will  you  kiss  my  white  hands 
gratefully  ?  Shall  we  be  simple  and  absurd  and  happy  ? 
Or  shall  we  fence  and  be  brilliant,  antagonistic,  keen- 
witted ?  No  matter !  No  matter !  The  fever  of  my 
heart  will  be  stilled.  My  eyes  will  see  you  and  be  satis- 
fied." 

***** 

A  cablegram  to  Andermatt.  Reply  paid.  (Money 
borrowed  from  Fraulein  Muller.) 

"Dreamt  that  you  had  long  black  beard.  Tell  me 
that  not  true.  —  NANCY." 

Reply  from  Andermatt : 

"  Not  true.     Come  at  once." 

***** 

Nancy  did  not  go  at  once.  She  had  no  money  to  go 
with ;  and,  of  course,  she  never  intended  to  go  at  all. 

He  wrote  :  "  Will  you  meet  me  in  Lucerne  ?  "  and  she 
replied :  "  Impossible." 

He :  "  I  shall  expect  you  in  Interlaken." 

She :  "  Out  of  the  question." 

He :  "  I  shall  be  in  London  in  October.  After  that  I 
am  off  to  Peru." 

So  in  September  she  wrote  to  him  again. 

"  I  lay  awake  last  night  dreaming  of  our  first  meeting. 
It  will  be  framed  in  the  conventional  luxury  of  a  little 
sitting-room  in  a  Grand  Hotel.  It  will  be  late  in  the 


THE   DEVOURERS  229 

afternoon  —  late  enough  to  have  the  pretty  pink-shaded 
lights  lit,  like  shining  fairy-tale  flowers,  all  over  the 
room.  Then  a  knock  at  the  door.  And  you  will  come 
into  my  life.  What  then,  what  then,  dear  Unknown? 
My  hands  will  lie  in  yours  like  prisoned  butterflies ;  my 
wilfulness  and  my  courage,  my  flippancy  and  effrontery 
will  throb  away,  foolishly,  weakly,  before  your  eyes. 
What  then  ?  Will  Convention  guide  the  steed  of  our 
Destiny  gently  back  into  the  well-kept  stables  of  the 
common-place  ?  or  shall  we  take  the  reins  into  our  own 
hands,  and  lash  it  rearing  and  foaming  over  the  precipice 
of  the  Forbidden,  down  into  the  flaming  depths  of 
passionate  happiness  ? 
"  Good-bye.  Of  course  I  shall  not  come." 

XIII 

FRAULEIN  MTJLLER  came  to  town  three  times  a  week 
and  taught  Anne-Marie  arithmetic  and  geography.  Of 
arithmetic  Anne-Marie  understood  little ;  of  geography 
no  word.  She  pointed  vaguely  with  a  ruler  at  the  map, 
and  said :  "  Skagerrack  and  Kattegat,"  which  were  the 
words  whose  sounds  pleased  her  most. 

"  The  child  is  not  at  all  a  genius,"  said  Fraulein  Miiller, 
much  depressed. 

One  day  George  and  Peggy  came  to  visit  them  at  the 
boarding-house.  And  with  them  they  brought  Mr. 
Markowski  and  his  violin. 

In  the  drawing-room  after  tea  Nancy  asked  the  shy  and 
greasy-looking  Hungarian  to  play :  and  the  fiddle  was 
taken  tenderly  out  of  its  plush-lined  case.  Markowski 
was  young  and  shabby,  but  his  violin  was  old  and  valu- 
able. Markowski  had  a  dirty  handkerchief,  but  the 


230  THE   DEVOURERS 

fiddle  had  a  clean,  soft  white  silk  one.  Markowski 
placed  a  small  black  velvet  cushion  on  his  greasy  coat- 
collar,  and  raised  the  violin  to  it ;  he  adjusted  his  chin 
over  it,  raised  his  bow,  and  shut  his  eyes.  Then  Mar- 
kowski was  a  god. 

Do  you  know  the  hurrying  anguish  of  Grieg's  F  dur 
Sonata  ?  Do  you  know  the  spluttering  shrieks  of 
laughter  of  Bazzini's  "  Ronde  des  Lutins "  ?  The 
sobbing  of  the  unwritten  Tzigane  songs  ?  The 
pattering  of  wing-like  feet  in  Ries's  "Perpetuum 
Mobile  ?  " 

Little  Anne-Marie  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room 
motionless,  pale  as  linen,  as  if  the  music  had  taken  life 
from  her  and  turned  her  into  a  white  statuette.  Ah, 
here  was  the  little  neoteric  statue  that  Nancy  had  tried 
to  fix !  The  child's  eyes  were  vague  and  fluid,  like  blue 
water  spilt  beneath  her  lashes  ;  her  colourless  lips  were 
open. 

Nancy  watched  her.  And  a  strange  dull  feeling  came 
over  her  heart,  as  if  someone  had  laid  a  heavy  stone  in  it. 
What  was  that  little  figure,  blanched,  decolorized,  trans- 
figured? Was  that  Anne-Marie?  Was  that  the  little 
silly  Anne-Marie,  the  child  that  she  petted  and  slapped 
and  put  to  bed,  the  child  that  was  so  stupid  at  geography, 
so  brainless  at  arithmetic  ? 

"  Anne-Marie !  Anne-Marie !  What  is  it,  dear  ? 
What  are  you  thinking  about  ?  " 

Anne-Marie  turned  wide  light  eyes  on  her  mother,  but 
her  soul  was  not  in  them.  For  the  Spirit  of  Music  had 
descended  upon  her,  and  wrapped  her  round  in  his  fabu- 
lous wings  —  wrapped  her,  and  claimed  her,  and  borne 
her  away  on  the  swell  of  his  sounding  wings. 


THE   DEVOUKERS  231 

XIV 

"FRAULEIN,  I  have  no  more  money  —  not  one  little 
brown  cent  in  the  wide  world,"  said  Nancy,  sitting  on  the 
lawn  of  the  Gartenhaus,  and  drinking  afternoon  tea  out 
of  Fraulein's  new  violet-edged  cups. 

"  So  ?  "  said  Fraulein.  For  a  long  time  her  lips  moved 
in  mental  calculation.  Then  she  said  :  "  I  could  let  you 
have  forty-seven  dollars." 

Nancy  put  down  the  cup,  and,  bending  forward,  kissed 
Fraulein's  downy  cheek. 

"  Dear  angel ! "  she  said ;  "  and  then  ?  " 

"  What  is  to  be  done  ?  "  said  Fraulein,  drying  her  lips 
on  her  new  fringed  serviette,  and  folding  it  in  a  small 
neat  square. 

"  Mali ! "  said  Nancy,  raising  her  shoulders,  swayed 
back  into  Italian  by  the  stress  of  the  moment. 

"  No  news  from  your  husband  ?  " 

"Bah!"  said  Nancy,  shrugging  her  shoulders  again, 
and  waving  her  hand  from  the  wrist  downwards  in  a 
gesture  of  disdain. 

Fraulein  sighed,  and  looked  troubled.     Then  she  said : 

"  You  must  come  and  live  here,  you  and  Anne-Marie.  I 
will  send  Elisabeth  away  —  anyhow,  she  has  broken 
already  three  lamp-glasses  and  a  plate — and  we  must 
live  with  economy."  Fraulein,  who  had  lived  with  that 
lean  and  disagreeable  comrade  all  her  life,  then  coughed 
and  looked  practical.  "  Yes,  I  shall  be  glad  to  get  rid  of 
that  clumsy  girl,  Elisabeth." 

Nancy  put  one  arm  round  her  neck  and  kissed  her 
again.  Then  she  said  :  "  I  have  only  one  hope." 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  asked  Fraulein. 

It  was  Nancy's  turn  to  cough.     She  did  so,  and  then 


232  THE  DEVOURERS 

said :  "  There  is  ...  there  are  .  .  .  some  .  .  .  some  people 
in  England  who  are  interested  in  me  — in  my  writings.  I 
think  .  .  .  they  might  help  ...  I  ought  to  go  over  and 
see  them." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Fraulein,  "  you  must  go.  And  I 
will  keep  Anne-Marie  here  with  me.  Then  she  need  not 
interrupt  her  violin-lessons." 

"  Yes,"  said  Nancy.     "  You  could  keep  Anne-Marie. 

.  ."     She  sighed  deeply.     "  Of  course  she  must  not 

interrupt  her  lessons.   I  suppose  you  think  I  ought  to  go  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  said  Fraulein,  who  was  practical.  "  A 
firm  like  that  won't  do  anything  without  seeing  you  and 
talking  business.  But  mind,  mind  they  do  not  cheat! 
Authoresses  are  always  being  cheated." 

Nancy  smiled.     "  I  shall  try  not  to  let  them." 

"  Being  English,  perhaps  they  will  not.  In  Berlin 

"  And  here  Fraulein  repeated  a  discourse  she  had 

made  many,  many  years  ago  in  Wareside  when  Nancy's 
first  poem  had  been  read  aloud.  Fraulein  remembered 
that  day,  and  spoke  of  it  now  with  tearful  tenderness. 
She  also  believed  she  remembered  bits  of  the  poem : 

"  This  morning  in  the  garden 
I  caught  the  little  birds  ; 
This  morning  in  the  orchard 
I  picked  the  little  words." 

"What!"  said  Nancy.  "Why  did  I  '  pick  the  little 
words'?" 

"  Perhaps  it  was  '  plucked,' "  said  Fraulein,  looking 
vague. 

"  This  morning  in  the  garden 
I  caught  the  little  words  ; 
This  morning  in  the  orchard 
I  plucked  ...  or  picked  the  little  birds " 

—  "  or  caught  them,"  continued  Fraulein,  much  moved. 


THE  DEVOURERS  233 

"  I  cannot  say  that  that  sounds  very  beautiful,"  said 
Nancy. 

"  Oh,  but  it  was.  It  may  have  been  a  little  different. 
But  it  was  lovely.  And  you  were  a  little  tiny  thing,  like 
Anne-Marie ! " 

"  Listen  to  Anne-Marie,"  said  Nancy. 

Anne-Marie  had  insisted  upon  bringing  her  violin  to 
the  Gartenhaus,  and  was  now  practising  on  it  in  the 
dining-room.  The  windows  were  open.  She  was  play- 
ing a  little  cradle-song  very  softly,  very  lightly,  in  perfect 
tune. 

"  That  is  indeed  a  Wonderchild,"  said  Fraulein. 

Markowski  had  called  her  a  Wonderchild  directly. 
When  he  had  seen  her  weeping  convulsively  after  he  had 
played,  he  had  exclaimed :  "  This  is  a  Wonderchild.  I 
will  teach  her  to  play  the  fiddle." 

And  sure  enough  he  had  come  to  the  house  on  the  fol- 
lowing day,  with  a  little  old  half-sized  fiddle,  like  a 
shabby  reproduction  of  the  dead  Guarnerius,  and  had 
given  Anne-Marie  her  first  lesson.  The  lesson  had  been 
long,  and  Anne-Marie  had  emerged  from  it  with  feverish 
eyes  and  hot  cheeks,  and  with  anger  in  her  heart.  For 
the  Bird,  or  the  Fairy,  or  the  Sorcerer,  or  the  Witch 
that  made  music  in  other  violins,  did  not  seem  to  be  in- 
side the  little  shabby  fiddle  Markowski  had  brought  her. 

"  Be  gentle,  be  gentle  !  and  do  what  I  say,"  said  Mar- 
kowski, with  his  stringy  black  hair  falling  over  his 
vehement  eyes.  "One  day  the  Birds  and  the  Witches 
will  be  in  it,  and  they  will  sing  to  you.  Now,  practise 
scale  of  C." 

And  Anne-Marie  had  practised  scale  of  C  —  to  Nancy's 
amazement,  for  she  thought  that  in  one  lesson  no  one 
could  have  learnt  so  much.  In  ten  lessons  Anne-Marie 


234  THE  DEVOUKERS 

had  learnt  fifteen  scales  and  a  cradle-song.  In  two 
months  she  had  learnt  what  other  children  learn  in  two 
years.  So  said  Markowski,  who  got  more  and  more  ex- 
cited, and  gave  longer  and  longer  lessons,  and  came  every 
day  instead  of  twice  a  week. 

"  What  do  I  owe  you  ?  "  Nancy  asked  him.  "  I  can't 
keep  count  of  the  lessons.  You  seem  to  be  always 
coming." 

"  Never  mind !  never  mind  ! "  said  Markowski,  waving 
excited,  unwashed  hands.  And  as  he  had  heard  about 
their  financial  position  from  George  and  Peggy,  he  added, 
"You  will  pay  me  ...  when  she  plays  you  the  Bach 
Chaconne ! " 

"Very  well,"  said  Nancy,  who  thought  that  that 
meant  in  a  week  or  two.  "Just  as  you  please,  Herr 
Markowski." 

And  then  she  thought  he  must  be  insane,  because  he 
was  bent  with  laughter  as  he  packed  away  his  violin. 

Fraulein  Mtiller  made  accounts  in  a  little  black 
book  all  one  day  and  half  one  night,  and  in  the  morning 
she  went  to  Lexington  Avenue  to  see  Nancy. 

"I  can  give  you  eighty  dollars.  Will  that  pay  your 
journey  to  England  to  see  the  firm  of  publishers  ?  " 

Oh  yes,  Nancy  thought  so.  And  how  good  of  her! 
And  how  could  Nancy  ever  thank  her  ? 

"  Of  course,  those  people  will  be  glad  to  advance  you 
something  at  once,  even  if  the  manuscript  is  not  quite 
ready,"  said  Fraulein,  who  was  romantic  besides  being 
practical. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Nancy. 

"See  that  you  have  a  proper  contract.  You  had 
better  ask  a  barrister  to  make  it  for  you."  And  Nancy 
promised  that  she  would. 


THE  DEVOURERS  235 

So  Fraulein  hurried  off  to  the  Deutsche  Bank,  and 
drew  out  eighty  dollars  and  a  little  extra,  because  Anne- 
Marie  would  have  to  have  puddings  and  good  soups 
while  she  was  with  her.  The  thought  of  giving  puddings 
to  Anne-Marie  made  her  hurriedly  take  her  handkerchief 
from  her  pocket  and  blow  her  nose. 

"  One  day  it  shall  be  sago,  one  day  it  shall  be  rice,  and 
one  day  it  shall  be  tapioca,  with  Konfiture"  And  Frau- 
lein Muller  hurried  with  her  eighty  dollars  to  Nancy. 

But  then  a  strange  thing  happened.  Nancy  would  not 
go.  Day  after  day  passed,  and  Nancy  always  had  some 
excuse  for  not  having  packed  her  trunk  or  taken  her 
berth.  Surely  it  was  not  so  difficult  to  pack  the  little 
things  she  wanted  for  a  short  business  journey.  Her  new 
navy-blue  serge,  observed  Fraulein,  was  very  good,  and 
the  brown  straw  hat  for  autumn  would  do  nicely. 

"  You  must  dress  sensibly  in  a  business-like  way  to  go 
and  see  those  people,"  said  Fraulein.  "It  would  never 
do  if  you  went  looking  like  a  flimsy  fly-away  girl." 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Nancy,  smiling  with  pale  lips. 
That  evening  she  wrote  to  George.  He  came  up  to  town 
at  the  lunch-hour  next  day,  and  asked  to  see  her.  She 
left  Anne-Marie  at  table  eating  stewed  steak,  to  go  and 
speak  to  him. 

"  George,"  she  said,  keeping  in  hers  the  cool  damp 
hand  he  held  out,  "I  want  money.  I  want  a  lot  of 
money." 

George  slowly  withdrew  his  hand,  and  pulled  at  a  little 
beard  he  had  recently  and  not  very  successfully  grown 
on  his  receding  chin. 

"  Then  I  guess  you  must  have  it,"  he  said. 

"But  I  want  a  great  deal.  Two  or  three  hundred 
dollars,"  said  Nancy.  "Or  four " 


236  THE  DEVOURERS 

"  Stop  right  there,"  said  George.  "  Don't  go  on  like 
that,  or  I  can't  follow."  And  he  pulled  his  beard  again. 

"  Oh,  George,  how  sweet  of  you !  how  dear  of  you ! " 
And  she  clasped  his  moist  left  hand,  which  he  left  limply 
in  hers. 

"  The  bother  of  it  is,  I  don't  know  how  I  shall  get  it," 
said  George.  "  I'm  just  thinking  that " 

"  Oh,  don't  tell  me  —  please  don't  tell  me  ! "  said  Nancy. 
"I  —  I'd  rather  not  know !  I  know  you  won't  steal,  or 
murder  anyone,  but  get  it,  George !  Oh,  thank  you ! 
thank  you  so  much  !  Good-bye ! " 

And  Nancy,  as  she  looked  out  of  the  window  after  him, 
at  his  cheap  hat  and  his  sloping  shoulders,  and  saw  him 
board  a  cable-car  going  down-town,  felt  that  she  was  a 
vulture  and  a  harpy. 

"The  Girl  in  the  Letters  has  demoralized  me,"  she 
said. 

He  brought  her  four  hundred  dollars  on  the  following 
Monday,  and  she  wept  some  pretty  little  tears  over  it, 
and  covered  her  ears  with  her  hands,  and  dimpled  up  at 
him,  when  he  began  to  tell  her  how  he  had  got  them. 
She  was  the  Girl  in  the  Letters.  She  was  practising. 
And  with  George  it  answered  very  well  —  too  well ! 
She  had  to  stop  quickly  and  be  herself  again.  Then  he 
went  away. 

And  she  went  out  and  bought  dresses.  She  bought 
drooping,  trailing  gowns  and  flimsy  fly-away  gowns,  and 
an  unbusiness-like  hat,  and  shoes  impossible  to  walk  in. 
She  bought  Crime  des  Crimes  for  her  face,  and  Crime 
Simon  for  her  hands,  and  liquid  varnish  for  her  nails, 
and  violet  unguent  for  her  hair. 

Then  she  waited  for  the  Unknown's  next  letter,  saying 

"  Come." 


THE  DEVOURERS  237 

The  letter  did  not  arrive.  A  day  passed,  and  another. 
And  he  did  not  write.  A  week  passed,  and  another,  and 
he  did  not  write.  Nancy  sat  in  the  boarding-house  with 
her  dresses  and  her  hats  and  her  Creme  des  Crimes.  The 
entire  four  hundred  dollars  of  George,  and  fifteen  dollars 
out  of  Fraulein's  eighty,  were  gone. 

Nancy  sat  and  looked  out  of  the  window,  and  thought 
her  thoughts.  Could  she  write  to  the  Unknown  again  ? 
No.  Hers  had  been  the  last  letter.  He  had  not  answered 
it.  Should  she  telegraph  ?  Where  to  ?  And  to  say  what  ? 
He  had  gone  to  Peru.  She  knew,  she  felt,  he  had  gone  to 
Peru.  The  pretty,  silly,  romantic  story  was  ended  — 
ended  as  she  had  wished  it  to  end,  without  the  banal 
denouement  of  their  meeting.  Better  so.  Much  better 
so.  Nancy  was  really  very  glad  that  things  were  as  they 
were. 

And  now  what  was  going  to  happen  to  her  ?  She  said 
to  herself  that  she  must  have  been  insane  to  borrow  all 
that  money  and  buy  those  crazy  dresses,  those  idiotic 
hats.  What  should  she  do?  The  terror  of  life  came 
over  her,  and  she  wished  she  were  safely  away  and  asleep 
in  the  little  Nervi  cemetery  between  her  father  and  her 
mother,  cool  and  in  the  dark,  with  quiet  upturned  face. 

Oh  yes,  she  was  really  exceedingly  glad  that  things 
were  as  they  were ! 

Half-way  through  the  third  week  a  telegram  was 
brought  to  her.  It  came  from  Paris. 

"  Why  not  dine  with  me  next  Thursday  at  the  Grand 
Hotel?" 

To-day  was  Thursday. 
She  cabled  back. 

"  Why  not  ?     At  eight  o'clock.  —  NANCY." 


238  THE   DEVOURERS 

Oh,  the  excitement,  the  packing,  the  telegraphing  to 
Fraulein,  the  hurry,  the  joy,  the  confusion!  The 
stopping  every  minute  to  kiss  Anne-Marie;  the  sitting 
down  suddenly  and  saying,  "  Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  go ! " 
And  then,  the  jumping  up  again  at  the  thought  of  the 
boat  that  left  to-morrow  at  noon. 

Fraulein  caine  to  fetch  Anne-Marie  at  ten  in  the 
morning.  She  arrived  joyful  and  agitated,  bringing  a 
fox-terrier  pup  in  her  arms,  a  present  for  Anne-Marie,  to 
prevent  her  crying. 

"  Why  should  I  cry  ? "  said  Anne-Marie,  with  the 
hardness  of  tender  years. 

"  Why,  indeed ! "  said  Nancy,  buttoning  Anne-Marie's 
coat,  while  quick  tears  fell  from  her  eyes.  "  Mother  will 
come  back  very  soon  —  very  soon." 

"Of  course,"  said  Anne-Marie,  holding  the  puppy 
tightly  round  the  neck,  and  putting  up  a  shoe  to  have  it 
buttoned. 

"Don't  let  her  catch  cold,  Fraulein,"  sobbed  Nancy, 
bending  over  the  shoe ;  and  when  it  was  fastened,  she 
kissed  it. 

"  No,"  said  Fraulein,  beaming.  "  She  shall  wear  flannel 
pellipands  that  I  am  making  for  her." 

The  second  shoe  was  buttoned  and  kissed.  Her  hat 
was  put  on  with  the  elastic  in  front  of  her  ears.  Her 
gloves  ?  Yes,  in  her  coat-pocket.  Handkerchief  ?  Yes. 
The  mice  ?  Yes ;  Fraulein  had  them,  and  the  violin, 
and  the  music-roll,  and  the  satchel.  The  box 
was  already  downstairs  in  the  carriage.  They  were 
ready. 

"  Let  me  carry  down  the  puppy,"  said  Nancy  on  the 
landing,  with  a  break  in  her  voice.  "  Then  I  can  hold 
your  dear  little  hand." 


THE  DEVOUKERS  239 

"  Oh  no !  "  said  Anne-Marie.  "  I'll  carry  the  puppy. 
You  can  hold  on  to  the  bannisters." 

So  Nancy  walked  down  behind  Anne-Marie  and  the 
puppy.  Fraulein  was  in  front,  dreading  the  moment  of 
leave-taking,  and  thinking  with  terror  of  the  possibility 
of  travelling  all  the  way  to  Staten  Island  with  a  loud 
and  tearful  Anne-Marie.  So  she  started  a  new  topic  of 
conversation. 

"  You  shall  have  pudding  every  day,"  she  said,  trying 
to  turn  round  on  the  second  landing  to  Anne-Marie, 
close  behind  her,  and  nearly  dropping  the  satchel  and  the 
mice,  as  the  violin-case  caught  in  the  bannisters.  "  One 
day  it  shall  be  sago,  another  day  tapioca.  .  .  ." 

"  I  don't  like  tapioca,"  said  Anne-Marie,  walking  down 
the  stairs.  "  I  don't  like  nothing  of  all  that." 

They  were  at  the  door.  By  request  of  Nancy,  nobody 
was  there  to  speak  to  them.  But  all  the  boarders  who 
were  in  the  house  were  looking  at  them  from  behind  the 
drawing-room  curtains. 

"  Then  what  do  you  like  for  dessert  ?  "  said  Fraulein, 
going  down  the  stone  steps  by  Anne-Marie's  side,  while 
Nancy  still  followed. 

"  I  like  peppermint  bullseyes,"  said  Anne-Marie, 
"and  pink  jelly."  And  she  added:  "Nothing  else," 
while  the  pimply  boy  and  the  maid  hoisted  her  into  her 
carriage.  Fraulein  got  in  after  her,  with  the  many 
packages.  And  the  puppy  barked  at  the  mice. 

"  Good-bye,  Anne-Marie  !  Good-bye,  darling !  "  cried 
Nancy,  kissing  her  with  great  difficulty  through 
the  carriage-window  across  Fraulein,  and  the  violin, 
and  the  mice,  that  were  on  Fraulein's  lap.  "  God 
bless  you!  God  bless  you  and  keep  you,  my  own 
darling ! " 


240  THE  DEVOURERS 

The  puppy  barked  deafeningly.  The  pimply  boy 
nodded  to  the  cabman,  and  off  they  were. 

Nancy  walked  slowly  back  into  the  house,  and  up  the 
stairs,  and  into  the  desolate  rooms. 


XV 

PEGGY  and  George  accompanied  her  to  the  boat,  Peggy 
excited  and  talkative,  George  depressed  and  silent.  In 
his  murky  down-town  office  George  had  felt  himself  of 
late  more  poet  than  clerk,  and  now  he  was  all  elegy. 
She  was  leaving!  She  was  going  away  with  his  heart, 
and  she  might  perhaps  never  return!  She  might  per- 
haps never  return  the  four  hundred  dollars  either.  They 
belonged  to  a  friend  of  George's  —  a  mean  and  sordid  soul. 
George  stifled  the  unlovely  thought,  born  of  the  clerk, 
and  surrendered  his  spirit  to  the  grief  of  the  poet. 

Farewell !  Farewell !  The  ship  turned  its  cruel  side, 
and  hid  the  little  waving  figure  from  his  sight.  It 
throbbed  away  like  a  great,  unfaithful  heart,  abandoning 
the  land.  Farewell !  What  were  four  hundred  dollars, 
belonging  to  a  friend,  compared  with  the  torn  and 
quivering  heartstrings  of  a  lover  ? 

The  ship  heaved  forward  towards  the  east,  rising  and 
sinking  as  ships  rise  and  sink,  carrying  Nancy  and  her 
dresses,  and  her  hats,  and  her  little  pots  of  cream,  to 
the  Unknown.  And  the  nearer  they  got  to  him,  the 
more  frightened  was  Nancy.  What  if  she  should  reach 
Paris,  with  the  fourteen  dollars  she  still  possessed,  and 
he  were  not  there?  What  if  he  turned  out  to  be  a 
brute  and  a  beast?  What  —  oh,  terrible  thought!  — 
if  he  were  to  think  her  not  as  pretty  as  he  had  expected  ? 
She  was  not  really  pretty.  Oh,  why  had  she  not  the 


THE   DEVOUEEES  241 

pale  sunshiny  hair  of  the  American  girl  opposite  her  at 
table?  Why  not  the  youth-splashed  eyes  of  the  little 
girl  from  the  West,  who  was  going  to  Paris  to  study  art  ? 
Why  not  the  long,  up-curling  lashes  of  her  light  and 
starry  glance  ? 

Nancy  comforted  herself  by  hoping  that  he  himself 
might  be  hideous.  But  if  he  were  ?  How  should  she 
smile  at  him  and  talk  to  him  if  he  were  a  repugnant, 
odious  monster  ?  Then  she  reasoned  that  if  he  were  a 
monster,  he  would  not  have  asked  her  to  come.  "  Why 
not  dine  with  me  on  Thursday?"  is  not  the  kind  of 
telegram  a  monster  would  send.  No,  he  was  not  a 
monster. 

What  would  he  say  to  her  when  they  met  ?  Every- 
thing depended  on  the  first  moment.  She  pictured  it  in 
a  thousand  different  ways.  The  pictures  always  began 
in  the  same  manner.  She  arrived  in  Paris ;  she  drove 
from  the  Gare  du  Nord,  not  to  the  Grand  Hotel  where 
he  was  staying,  but  to  the  Continental.  She  engaged  a 
gorgeous  suite  of  rooms.  What !  with  fourteen  dollars  ? 
Exactly  so !  What  did  it  matter  ?  It  was  Kouge  or 
Noir.  If  Eouge  came  up,  all  was  well.  If  Noir  —  la 
debdcle!  le  deluge!  Fifty  francs  more  or  less  made 
absolutely  no  difference.  A  few  hours'  rest.  An  hour 
or  two  for  an  elaborate  toilette ;  all  the  creams  used,  all 
the  details  perfect.  Then  she  would  send  a  messenger, 
at  a  quarter  to  eight,  to  his  hotel : 

"  Dear  Unknown,  I  am  here ! " 

Then  —  ah !  then,  what  ?  He  arrives,  he  enters,  he 
sees  her.  Then  she  must  say  something.  Ah !  what  ? 
What  are  her  first  words  to  be?  "How  do  you  do?" 
Dreadful !  No,  never  that !  "Here  I  am  !  "  Worse, 
worse  still.  In  French,  perhaps  ?  "  Me  voild, ! " 


242  THE  DEVOURERS 

Ridiculous  !  No ;  she  will  say  nothing.  He  must  speak 
first. 

Then  she  imagines  his  opening  phrases.  After  a  long 
silence  his  voice,  deep  and  trembling  with  emotion : 
"  Yes,  you  are  the  Woman  of  my  Dreams  ! "  That  would 
be  very  nice.  Or,  then  :  "  Ah  !  Eve !  Eve !  How  I 
have  longed  for  you !  "  That  would  strike  the  right  note 
at  once.  Or,  then,  with  both  hands  outstretched: 
"  So  this  is  Nancy ! "  That  would  be  rather  nice.  But 
perhaps  he  will  say  something  more  original :  "  Why 
did  you  not  tell  me  you  had  a  dimple  in  your  chin  ?  " 

Ah,  how  long  Nancy  lay  awake  thinking  of  those 
First  Words !  Nancy  tossed  in  her  little  berth,  and 
turned  her  pillow's  freshest  side  to  her  hot  cheek ;  and 
she  palpitated  and  trembled,  smiled  and  feared,  repented 
and  defied,  until  the  huge  boat  creaked  against  the  land- 
ing stage  of  the  Havre  dock. 

She  arrived  at  the  Gare  du  Nord  at  three  o'clock. 
She  drove  to  the  Continental,  and  engaged  a  suite  of 
rooms  that  cost  eighty  francs  a  day  :  a  sitting-room,  all 
tender  greens  and  delicate  greys,  looking  as  if  it  were 
seen  through  water,  and  adjoining  it  a  gorgeous  scarlet 
bedroom,  with  a  dozen  mirrors  a-shine,  all  deferentially 
awaiting  the  Elaborate  Toilette. 

Sleep  was  out  of  the  question.  By  four  o'clock  the 
note  that  was  to  be  sent  at  half-past  seven  was  written, 
and  Nancy  began  her  elaborate  toilette.  She  thought 
of  ordering  the  coiffeur,  but  she  remembered  that 
coiffeurs  had  always  dressed  her  hair  in  wonderful  twists 
and  coils  and  rolls,  until  her  head  looked  like  a  cake  to 
which  her  face  did  not  in  any  way  belong.  So  she  did 
her  hair  a  la  Carmen,  parted  on  one  side.  It  [seemed 
the  style  of  hair-dress  that  the  Girl  in  the  Letters  would 


THE  DEVOURERS  243 

adopt.  But  when  it  was  done  it  looked  startling  and 
impertinent.  So  she  unpinned  it  again  and  decided  in 
favour  of  a  simple,  unaffected  coiffure.  She  parted  her 
hair  in  the  middle,  plaited  it,  and  pinned  it  round  her 
head.  It  was  unaffected  and  simple.  She  looked  like 
the  youngest  of  the  two  Swedish  girls  in  the  boarding- 
house.  She  did  not  look  at  all  like  the  Girl  in  the 
Letters.  So  once  more  she  unpinned  it,  and  did  it  a  la 
pierrot  —  a  huge  puff  in  the  middle,  waving  down  over  her 
forehead,  and  two  huge  puffs,  one  on  each  side.  It  looked 
pretty  and  unladylike. 

By  this  time  it  was  six  o'clock.  The  creams !  First 
a  little  cold  cream  ;  then  Cr&me  Imptratrice;  then  —  she 
remembered  the  directions  given  her  by  the  person  in 
the  shop  perfectly  —  a  tiny  amount  of  Leichner's  rouge, 
mixed  with  a  little  Cr&me  des  Crimes  in  the  palm  of  the 
hand,  gently  rubbed  into  the  cheeks  and  chin;  then 
powder  —  rose-coloured  and  Kachel.  Now  a  soupqon  of 
rouge  on  the  lobes  of  the  ears  and  in  the  nostrils.  This, 
the  person  in  the  shop  said,  was  very  important.  Then 
the  eyebrows  brushed  with  an  atom  of  mascara,  a  touch 
of  Leichner  on  the  lips,  an  idea  of  shadow  round  the 
eyes  —  and  behold ! 

Nancy  beheld.  Her  face  looked  mauve,  and  her  nostrils 
suggested  a  feverish  cold.  Her  eyes  looked  large,  and 
tired,  and  intense,  like  the  eyes  of  the  prairie  chickens 
at  Monte  Carlo. 

Seven  o'clock !  She  had  forgotten  her  nails !  For 
twenty  minutes  she  painted  her  nails  with  the  pink 
varnish,  which  was  sticky,  and,  once  on,  would  not  wash 
off.  Her  fingers  looked  as  if  she  had  dipped  them  in 
blood. 

Half-past  seven !     She  must  send  the  note.     She  rang 


244  THE  DEVOUKERS 

the  bell,  and  a  waiter  came.  He  had  been  a  nice,  well- 
behaved  German  waiter,  as  he  had  shown  her  respectfully 
to  her  expensive  rooms.  When  he  saw  her  as  she  now 
appeared  —  she  had  hastily  slipped  into  the  lightest  of 
the  three  trailing  dresses  —  the  waiter  stared ;  he  stared 
rudely,  with  raised  eyebrows,  at  her,  and  took  the  note 
from  her  hand. 

He  read  the  address,  nodded,  and  said:  "Jawohl! 
All  right.  C'est  bon ! "  And  then  he  smiled.  He  smiled 
—  at  her !  — and  went  down  the  passage  whistling  softly. 

Nancy  shut  her  door.  She  took  off  the  trailing  dress, 
and  went  to  her  bathroom.  She  turned  on  the  hot  water 
and  washed  her  face.  She  washed  off  the  shades  and 
soupgons,  the  crimes  and  the  mascara  from  her  eyebrows 
and  her  chin,  her  ears  and  her  nostrils.  Then  she  pinned 
her  hair  loosely  on  the  top  of  her  head,  as  she  always 
did,  and  put  on  the  darkest  of  the  three  trailing  gowns. 
But  her  nails  she  scrubbed  in  vain.  They  remained 
aggressively  rose-coloured,  and  Nancy  blushed  hotly 
every  time  she  saw  them.  She  decided  to  put  her  hat 
and  gloves  on.  She  did  so.  Then  she  sat  down  in  her 
sitting-room  and  waited.  She  waited  fifteen  minutes. 

Then  somebody  knocked. 

Nancy  started  to  her  feet  as  if  she  had  been  shot. 
With  beating  heart  she  ran  back  into  the  bedroom  and 
shut  the  door  after  her.  No,  it  was  not  quite  shut;  it 
swung  lightly  ajar,  and  Nancy  left  it  so.  She  heard  the 
knock  repeated  more  loudly  at  the  outer  door ;  she  heard 
the  door  open,  and  someone  enter.  Then  the  door  closed, 
and  steps  —  the  waiter's  steps  —  went  back  along  the  hall. 

Somebody  was  in  that  room.  Somebody !  A  man ! 
A  man  whom  she  had  never  seen.  A  man  to  whom  she 
had  written  forty  or  fifty  letters,  whom  she  had  called 


THE  DEVOUKERS  245 

"  mon  ami "  and  "  ines  amours,"  "  Prince  Charming," 
and  "  nay  unknown  lover"  ! 

Nancy  stood  motionless,  petrified  with  shame,  her  face 
hidden  in  her  white-gloved  hands.  She  would  never  go 
in  —  never !  Not  if  she  had  to  stand  here  for  years ! 
She  could  not  face  that  silent  man  next  door. 

The  situation  was  becoming  ridiculous.  The  silence 
was  tense  in  both  rooms.  Ah,  when  three  thousand 
miles  had  separated  them,  how  near  she  had  felt  to  him! 
And  now,  with  a  few  feet  of  carpet  and  an  open  door 
between  them,  he  was  far  away  —  incommensurably  far 
away  !  A  stranger,  an  intruder,  an  enemy  ! 

Utter  silence.  Was  he  there  ?  Yes.  Nancy  knew 
he  was  there,  waiting. 

Suddenly  Nancy  was  frightened.  The  one  idea  pos- 
sessed her  to  get  away  from  that  unseen,  silent  man. 
She  would  slip  through  the  bathroom,  and  out  into  the 
passage  and  away!  She  took  a  step  forward.  Her 
trailing  dress  rustled.  Her  high-heeled  boots  creaked. 
And  in  the  next  room  the  man  coughed. 

Nancy  stood  still  again,  transfixed  —  turned  to  stone. 

•Another  long  silence,  ludicrous,  untenable.  Then  in 
the  next  room  the  First  Words  were  spoken.  He  spoke 
them  in  a  calm  and  well-bred  voice. 

"  Our  dinner  will  be  cold." 

Nancy  laughed  suddenly,  softly,  convulsively.  Her 
voice  was  treble  and  sweet  as  she  replied : 

"What  have  you  ordered  ?" 

The  man  in  the  next  room  said :  "  Fillet  of  sole." 

"  Fried  ?  "  asked  Nancy  earnestly ;  and,  knowing  that 
unless  she  slid  in  on  that  fillet  of  sole  she  would  never 
do  so,  she  passed  quickly  under  the  draped  portiere  and 
entered  the  room. 


246  THE  DEVOUKERS 

They  looked  each  other  in  the  face.  She  saw  a  large 
and  stalwart  figure,  a  hard  mouth,  and  a  strong,  curved 
nose  in  a  sunburnt  face,  two  chilly  blue  eyes  under  a 
powerful  brow,  and  waving  grey  hair.  He  looked  down 
at  her,  and  was  satisfied.  His  cool  blue  gaze  took  her  in 
from  the  top  of  her  large  black  feathered  hat  to  the  tips 
of  her  Louis  XV.  shoes. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  offering  his  arm.  And  they  went 
out  together. 

The  dinner  was  not  cold.  Nancy  hardly  spoke  at  all. 
She  was  nervous  and  charming.  She  sipped  Lieb- 
fraunmilch,  and  dimpled  and  rippled  while  he  told  her 
that  he  had  mines  in  Peru,  and  that  he  had  been  away 
from  civilization  for  twenty  years. 

"  I  went  down  to  the  mines  when  I  was  twenty,  and 
came  back  when  I  was  forty.  That  is  four  years  ago. 
I  have  been  fighting  my  way  ever  since,  trying  to  keep 
clear  of  the  wrong  woman.  I  am  afraid  of  women." 

"  So  am  I,"  said  Nancy,  which  was  not  true. 

He  laughed,  and  said  :  "  And  of  what  else  ?  " 

"  Spiders,"  said  Nancy,  with  her  head  on  one  side. 

"  And  what  else  ?  " 

"  Lions,"  said  Nancy. 

"  And  what  else  ?  " 

"  Thunderstorms."  And,  as  he  seemed  to  be  waiting, 
she  added  :  "  And  of  you,  of  course." 

He  did  not  believe  it.     But  she  was. 

After  dinner  he  took  her  to  the  Folies  Bergeres  and 
then  to  the  Boite  a  Fursy  ;  and  he  watched  her  narrowly, 
and  was  glad  that  she  did  not  laugh.  Then  he  took  her 
back  to  the  hotel.  They  went  up  together  in  the  lift, 
and  along  the  red-carpeted,  boot-adorned  corridor  to 
her  green  and  grey  salon.  He  did  not  ask  permission, 


THE   DEVOURERS  247 

but  walked  in  and  sat  down  —  large  and  long  —  in  the 
small  brocaded  armchair. 

"  Are  you  tired  ?  "  he  said. 

Nancy  said,  "  No,"  and  remained  standing. 

He  said,  "  Sit  down,"  and  she  obeyed  him, 

He  sat  staring  before  him  for  a  while,  with  his  underlip 
pushed  up  under  his  upper-lip,  making  his  straight,  short- 
cut moustache  stand  out.  He  was  a  strong,  large,  ugly 
man.  Nancy  suddenly  remembered  that  she  had  called 
him  "  toi,"  and  said,  "  adieu,  mes  amours  "  to  him  in 
her  letters,  and  she  felt  faint  with  shame.  He  made  a 
little  noise,  something  between  a  cough  and  a  growl, 
and  looked  up  at  her. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  ?  "  he  said. 

She  laughed.  "  I  am  thinking  that  I  called  you  Prince 
Charming,  whereas  you  really  are  the  Ogre." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  and  stared  at  her  a  long  time.  Then 
he  got  up  suddenly  and  put  out  his  large  hand.  "  Good- 
night, Miss  Brown,"  he  said.  He  took  his  hat  and  stick, 
and  went  out,  shutting  the  door  decidedly  behind  him. 

The  next  morning  at  half-past  eleven  he  came;  he 
had  a  small  bunch  of  lilies  of  the  valley  in  his  hand. 

"  Will  you  invite  me  to  lunch  ?  "  he  said. 

Yes,  Nancy  would  be  very  pleased.  She  thought  of  the 
twenty-two  francs  in  her  purse ;  but  nothing  mattered. 

They  lunched  in  the  dining-room,  and  he  was  very 
silent.  Nancy  spoke  of  music,  but  he  did  not  respond. 

"  Do  you  sing  ?  "  she  asked  at  last. 

He  looked  up  at  her  like  an  offended  wild  beast. 
"  Do  I  look  as  if  I  could  sing  ?  " 

"  No,  you  don't,"  she  said.  "  You  look  as  if  you 
could  growl." 

He  smiled  slightly  under  his  clipped  moustache,  and 


248  THE  DEVOURERS 

did  not  answer.  Nancy  gave  up  all  attempt  at  con- 
versation. Her  heart  beat  fast.  Things  were  going 
wrong.  He  was  tired  of  her  already.  He  looked  bored 
—  well,  no,  not  bored,  but  utterly  indifferent  and  hard, 
as  if  he  were  alone.  After  their  coffee  he  got  up  — 
every  time  he  rose  Nancy  wondered  anew  at  his  breadth 
and  length  —  and  led  the  way  out.  Nancy  trotted  after 
him  with  short  steps.  He  went  into  the  lounge  and 
took  a  seat  near  a  table  in  the  window,  pushing  a  chair 
forward  for  Nancy. 

"  May  I  smoke  ? "  he  said,  taking  a  large  cigar-case 
from  his  pocket. 

Nancy  nodded.  He  chose  his  cigar  carefully,  clipped 
the  end  off,  and  lit  it.  Nancy  could  not  think  of  a  word 
to  say.  All  her  pretty,  frivolous  conversation,  all  the 
bright  remarks  and  witty  repartee,  wavered  away  from 
her  mind.  She  had  not  prepared  herself  for  monologues. 

After  the  first  puff  he  said :  "  You  don't  smoke,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Oh  no !  "  said  Nancy. 

As  soon  as  she  had  said  it  a  wave  of  crimson  flooded 
her  face.  She  remembered  writing  that  she  smoked 
Russian  cigarettes  perfumed  with  heliotrope.  He  had 
not  believed  her.  How  could  she  have  written  such  an 
idiotic  thing  ?  And  suddenly  she  realized  that  she  was 
i  not  the  Girl  in  her  Letters  at  all,  and  that  he  must  be 
,  i  bored  and  disappointed.  But  no  more  was  he  the  Man 
of  his  Letters;  at  least,  she  had  imagined  him  quite 
different,  with  fair  hair  and  droopy  grey  eyes,  and  a 
poet's  soul.  Then  she  remembered  that  he  had  never 
spoken  about  himself  in  his  letters  at  all. 

At  this  point  he  looked  up  and  said :  "  I  like  a  woman 
who  can  keep  quiet.  You  have  not  spoken  for  half  an 
lour."  And  she  laughed,  and  was  glad. 


THE  DEVOURERS  249 

When  he  had  finished  his  cigar,  he  said :  "  I  hope  you 
have  not  left  any  valuables  in  your  room.  It  is  not 
safe." 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Nancy ;  « I  haven't." 

"  Have  you  given  them  to  the  office  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Nancy  —  "  no ;  "  and  suddenly  she  remem- 
bered that  she  had  told  him  in  her  letters  that  she  wore 
jewels  all  over  her. 

Without  looking  up,  he  said :  "  Will  you  give  me  your 
purse  ?  I  will  take  care  of  it." 

Nancy  felt  that  if  she  went  on  flushing  any  more  her 
hair  would  catch  fire.  She  drew  out  her  purse  and 
handed  it  to  him.  He  opened  it  slowly  and  deliberately.  '• 
He  took  out  the  three  sous  and  the  two  francs,  and  put 
them  into  his  pocket.  Then  he  opened  the  middle 
division,  and  looked  at  the  twenty-franc  piece.  He  took 
it  out  and  placed  it  on  the  table.  Then  he  went  through 
all  the  other  compartments,  gazing  pensively  at  an 
unused  tramway  ticket  and  at  a  medal  of  the  Madonna 
del  Monte.  He  put  those  back  again,  and  handed 
Nancy  the  purse.  The  twenty-franc  piece  he  put  into 
a  purse  of  his  own,  and  into  his  pocket. 

"Now  let  us  go  for  a  drive,"  he  said. 

Nancy,  feeling  dazed,  rustled  away,  and  took  the 
lift  to  her  room.  She  pinned  on  her  hat,  took  her  coat 
and  gloves,  and  just  caught  the  lift  again  as  it  was 
passing  down.  When  he  saw  her,  he  said  ''That 
was  quick,"  and  they  went  out  together.  A  victoria 
was  waiting  for  them.  The  porter  was  profusely  polite, 
and  the  horses  started  off  at  a  loose  trot  down  the 
Boulevards  and  towards  the  fitoile.  He  asked  her  many 
questions  during  the  drive,  and  in  her  answers  she  was 
as  much  as  possible  the  Girl  of  the  Letters. 


250  THE  DEVOURERS 

He  sounded  her  about  Monte  Carlo,  and  she  was  glad 
that  she  was  quite  au  courant,  and  could  mention 
systems  and  the  Cafe  de  Paris. 

"  Would  you  like  to  go  there  again  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Yes  —  oh  yes!"  she  said,  clasping  her  mauve  kid 
gloves.  Then  she  fell  into  a  reverie,  and  she  kept  her 
hands  clasped  in  her  lap,  for  she  was  saying  an  Ave  and 
a  Pater  for  Anne-Marie. 

The  carriage  was  turning  into  the  Bois  when  her  com- 
panion said : 

"  Where  do  you  want  to  go  ?  " 

Nancy  said :  "  This  is  very  nice.     The  Bois  is  lovely." 

"I  mean  where  do  you  want  to  go  to  to-morrow, 
or  the  day  after,  or  next  week.  You  do  not  want  to 
stay  in  Paris  for  ever,  do  you  ?  " 

She  drew  a  little  quick  breath,  and  said,  "  Oh !  "  and 
then  again,  "  Oh,  really  ?  "  and  looked  up  at  him  with 
uncertain  eyes. 

"  Do  not  look  at  me  as  if  I  were  the  spider,  or  the  lion, 
or  the  thunderstorm.  Tell  me  if  there  is  any  place  on 
earth  that  you  have  longed  to  go  to.  And  when.  And 
with  whom." 

Nancy's  eyes  filled  quickly  with  glowing  tears.  "I 
should  like  to  go  to  Italy,"  she  said,  "  to  a  little  village 
tip-tilted  over  the  sea,  called  Porto  Venere." 

The  Ogre,  who  had  read  "  Elle  et  Lui,"  nodded,  and 
said :  "  I  know.  Anywhere  else  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  stay  a  few  days  in  Milan  —  to  see 
some  people  who  are  dear." 

"  Et  apres  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  go  to  Switzerland.  Only  to  one  or 
two  little  places  there  —  the  Via  Mala,  Splugen, 
Sufers  — " 


THE  DEVOURERS  251 

"  H'm  —  h'm,"  said  he,  and  waited  to  hear  more. 

"And  then  —  and  then  —  yes,  perhaps  to  Monte 
Carlo  —  and  oh,  to  Naples  and  to  Rome !  But  I  want 
to  stay  longest  in  Porto  Venere." 

He  nodded,  and  said :  "  When  do  you  want  to  start  ?  " 

"  To-morrow,"  said  Nancy. 

"  And  how  ?  In  a  train  ?  Or  by  motor  ?  Or  by  boat  ?  " 

"  I  don't  mind,"  said  Nancy,  hiding  her  face  in  her 
handkerchief  and  beginning  to  weep. 

"  And  with  whom  ?  "  There  was  a  pause.  "  What 
about  a  maid  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  maid ! "  said  Nancy.  Then  she  looked  up. 
"  With  you,"  she  said,  because  the  Girl  in  the  Letters 
would  have  said  it,  and  also  because  she  wanted  him  to 
come. 

"  All  right.     Don't  take  much  luggage,"  he  said. 

XVI 

THEY  went.  They  went  through  Switzerland.  They 
drove  down  the  wide  white  roads  that  coil  like  wind- 
blown ribbons  round  the  swelling  breasts  of  the  Alps ; 
they  went  up  the  barren  Julier  Pass,  and  through  the 
shuddering  Via  Mala,  breakfasting  at  St.  Moritz,  table 
d'hoting  at  Maloya,  wandering  through  the  moonlike 
sunshine  of  Splugen's  pine-forests,  clattering  and  rum- 
bling over  the  covered  bridges  of  Sufers.  The  snow- 
tipped  pine-trees,  like  regiments  of  monks  with  nightcaps 
on,  nodded  at  them  in  stately  gravity ;  the  squirrels 
stopped  with  quick,  beady  glances,  and  scuttled  away, 
tail-flourishing,  up  the  branches,  while  the  bland  Hel- 
vetian cows  stood  in  the  green  meadows  to  watch  them 
pass. 


252  THE  DEVOURERS 

Every  evening  they  went  together  down  boot-adorned 
passages  to  the  door  of  Nancy's  room.  And  there  he 
said,  "  Good-night,  Miss  Brown,"  and  left  her. 

They  went  on  into  Italy  —  straight  down  to  Naples 
without  stopping  in  Milan,  for  Nancy  would  not  see  any- 
one she  loved  after  all ;  for  she  could  not  explain  any- 
thing, and  did  not  know  what  to  say,  and  did  not  want 
to  think  of  anything  just  now.  She  would  think  after- 
wards. They  clambered  up  the  Vesuvius ;  they  wandered 
through  Pompei;  they  went  to  Spezia,  and  remem- 
bered Shelley ;  they  went  on  to  Porto  Venere,  and 
trembled  to  think  that  the  sharks  might  have  eaten 
Byron  when  he  swam  across  the  bay ;  they  rowed  about 
the  Golfo,  and  ate  vongole  and  other  horrible,  ill- 
smelling  frutti  di  mare.  And  every  evening,  in  the  boot- 
adorned  passages  of  the  hotels,  he  took  her  to  the  door 
of  her  room,  and  said,  "  Good-night,  Miss  Brown." 

In  Spezia  a  little  steamer  that  was  coasting  northwards 
took  them  on  board.  They  were  sliding  on  blue  waters 
into  Genoa,  when  Nancy,  seated  on  a  basket  of  oranges, 
felt  the  touch  of  the  Ogre's  hand  on  her  shoulder.  She 
looked  up  and  smiled.  He  sat  down  on  another  basket 
beside  her.  It  creaked  and  groaned  under  his  weight, 
so  he  got  up  and  fetched  a  heavy  wooden  case,  dragging 
it  along  the  deck  to  Nancy's  side. 

"  Now  what  ?  "  he  said. 

Nancy  had  grown  to  understand  him  well.  Not  for 
an  instant  did  she  think  that  he  was  talking  of  the 
moment,  or  the  next  hour,  as  she  had  thought  when 
they  had  driven  in  the  Bois,  now  more  than  a  month 
ago.  She  knew  that  he  looked  at  life  in  large  outlines, 
and  seldom  spoke  of  small,  immediate  things. 

"  Now  what  ?  "  she  echoed.     He  put  his  large  brown 


*  r 

V^"       )  JL     \ 

THE   DEVOURERS  253 

hand  on  her  small  one,  and  it  was  his  first  caress.  It 
thrilled  Nancy  to  the  heart.  His  chilly  blue  eyes  watched 
her  face,  and  saw  it  paling  slowly  under  his  gaze. 

"  Now  you  must  go  home,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  said  Nancy,  "now  I  must  go  home."  And 
she  wondered  vaguely  whether  home  was  the  boarding- 
house  in  Lexington  Avenue  or  Mrs.  Johnstone's  flat  in 
82nd  Street.  She  decided  that  it  was  the  flat,  where 
the  bunch  of  orchids  and  maidenhair  had  come  and 
lived  almost  a  week.  Peggy  and  George  would  be  her 
friends  again,  and  the  dead  Mr.  Johnstone,  and  the 
naked  baby,  and  the  chinless  young  man  would  be 
with  her  in  the  evenings.  And  Anne-Marie  must  leave 
Fraulein  Muller's  Gartenhaus,  and  go  back  to  school  on 
Sixth  Avenue. 

"  What  are  your  thoughts,"  said  the  Ogre. 

"...  I  was  wondering  what  made  you  send  that 
messenger-boy  with  the  flowers  and  the  letter  —  the 
letter  to  the  girl  in  l)lue.  ...  It  was  not  a  bit  like 
you,"  she  said.  And,  looking  into  the  hard  face,  she 
added :  "  You  are  not  at  all  like  that." 

"  I  know  I'm  not,"  he  said.  Then  he  added,  with  a 
laugh,  "  Thank  God !  But  we  all  do  things  that  are 
not  like  ourselves  now  and  then.  Don't  we?"  She 
did  not  answer.  "  Don't  you  ?  "  he  insisted. 

Nancy  sighed  and  wondered.  "  I  don't  know.  What 
is  like  me,  and  what  is  not  like  me  ?  I  do  not  know  at 
all.  I  do  not  know  myself." 

"  I  do,"  said  the  Ogre.  And  there  was  another  long 
silence.  He  had  the  aggravating  habit  of  stopping 
short  after  a  sentence  that  one  would  like  to  hear  con- 
tinued. 

"  Speak,"  said  Nancy.     "  Say  more." 


254  THE  DEVOUKEES 

"  It  was  not  like  me  to  send  those  useless  and  expen- 
sive flowers  out  into  the  world  to  nobody,  and  to  write 
a  crazy  letter  in's  Blaue  hinein  —  into  space.  But  we 
all  have  mad  moments  in  our  lives  when  we  do  things 
that  are  quite  unlike  us."  A  pause  again.  "It  was 
not  like  you  to  write  me  those  letters  describing  your 
old-rose  curtains  —  afterwards  they  were  blue  velvet  — 
and  your  scented  cigarettes,  and  your  jewels,  and  your 
lovers.  And  it  was  not  like  you  to  cross  the  Atlantic 
and  come  to  Paris  and  to  supper  with  a  man  you  had 
never  met,  in  order  to  see  whether  you  could  get  money 
out  of  him." 

Nancy  covered  her  face.  "  Oh  ! "  she  said,  "  have 
you  thought  that  ?  " 

"  Oh !  "  he  said,  "  have  you  done  that  ?  "  And  there 
was  silence. 

The  Captain  passed  and  remarked  on  the  fine  weather, 
adding  that  they  would  arrive  in  less  than  an  hour. 
Then  he  went  by. 

"  I  liked  your  first  letter  —  poor  little  truthful  letter 
on  the  cheap  paper.  You  said  you  were  the  wrong  girl. 
You  were  dressed  in  brown.  I  could  see  you  in  your 
shabby  brown  dress  —  I  knew  it  must  be  shabby  —  and 
I  liked  the  idea  of  doing  something  unexpected  with  a 
little  money.  Then  I  was  amused  at  your  letter  saying 
you  were  not  Miss  Brown.  After  that  the  lies  began." 

Nancy  quivered.  The  houses  of  Quarto  were  coming 
into  sight;  the  red  hotel  of  Quinto  was  gliding  past. 

"  How  could  you  think  that  I  would  believe  in  the 
old-rose  curtains  in  the  300's  of  East  82nd  Street,  I  who 
have  lived  five  or  six  years  in  New  York  ?  That  showed 
me  that  you  were  a  foreigner,  or  you  would  have  known 
that  street  numbers  in  New  York  tell  their  own  tale.  Then 


THE  DEVOURERS  255 


your  letters  told  me  that  you  were  a  fanciful  creature, 
and  they  told  me  that  you  were  lonely,  or  you  would 
not  have  found  time  to  write  so  much  —  a  cultivated, 
little  fibber,  who  quoted  every  poet  under  the  sun, 
especially  the  out-of-the-way  ones.  Then,  when  I  found 
out  that  you  had  a  child  —  " 

"Oh!"  gasped  Nancy,  and  the  tears  welled  over. 
"  You  know  about  Anne-Marie  !  " 

"I  know  about  Anne-Marie.  I  even  have  a  picture 
of  her."  He  unbuttoned  his  coat,  and  drew  out  his 
pocket-book,  and  from  it  a  little  snapshot  photograph, 
which  he  handed  to  Nancy.  It  was  herself  and  Anne- 
Marie  in  front  of  a  toy-shop.  They  were  in  the  act  of 
turning  from  it,  and  Anne-Marie's  foot  was  lifted  in  the 
air.  They  were  both  laughing,  and  neither  of  them 
looking  their  best. 

"Oh,  but  that's  hideous  of  her,"  said  Nancy.  "She 
is  quite  different  from  that." 

He  smiled,  and  put  the  picture  back  into  his  pocket- 
book,  and  the  pocket-book  into  his  breast-pocket. 

"When  I  had  found  out  that  you  had  a  child,  and 
that  your  husband  "  —  he  hesitated  —  "  was  —  er  —  Nea- 
politan, I  understood  what  you  were  after,  and  decided 
that  I  would  —  walk  into  it  —  que  je  marcherais,  as  the 
French  say.  Et  j'ai  inarche."  A  long  silence,  and 
then  he  said  :  "  And  now,  what  do  you  want  ?  " 

But  Nancy  was  crying,  and  could  not  answer.  "  Do 
you  want  to  go  on  living  in  America  ?  "  Nancy  shook 
her  head. 

"  What  are  you  crying  for  ?  "  and  he  took  her  wrist, 
and  pulled  one  hand  from  her  face. 

Nancy  raised  her  reddened  eyes.  "  I  am  crying,"  she 
said  brokenly,  "because  all  the  —  the  prettiness  has 


256  THE  DEVOURERS 

been  taken  out  of  everything.  Yes,  I  was  poor  —  yes,  I 
was  miserable,  and  I  was  inventing  things  in  my  letters ; 
but  I  thought  you  believed  them  —  and  I  thought  you  — 
you  loved  me,  like  Jaufre*  Rudel.  And  I  have  never, 
never  been  so  happy  as  when  —  as  when  —  I  loved  you 
across  the  distance  —  and  you  were  the  Unknown  —  and 
now  it  is  all  broken  and  spoilt  —  and  all  the  time  you 

«  thought  I  wanted  money  —  I  mean  you  knew  I  wanted 
money,  and  you  had  that  hideous  picture,  and" — here 
Nancy  broke  into  weak,  wild  sobs  —  "  you  thought  I 
looked  like  that ! " 

"  That's  so,"  said  Jauf  re  Rudel. 

And  he  let  her  cry  for  a  long  time. 

Quarto  had  slipped  back  into  the  distance,  and  San 
Francesco  D'Albaro  was  moving  smoothly  into  view. 

"  I  can't  go  on  crying  for  ever,"  said  Nancy,  raising 
her  face  with  a  quivering  smile,  "  and  the  Captain  will 
think  you  are  a  huge,  horrid,  scolding  English  Ogre." 

They  were  nearly  in.  "Get  your  little  bag  and 
things,"  he  said  to  her,  and  she  rose  quickly  and  com- 
plied. Everybody  was  standing  up  waiting  to  land. 
Oh,  how  good  it  was  to  be  taken  care  of  and  ordered 
about,  to  be  told  to  do  this  and  that !  She  stood  behind 
him  small  and  meek,  holding  her  travelling-bag  in  one 
hand,  and  in  the  other  the  umbrellas  and  sticks  strapped 
together.  His  large  shoulders  were  before  her  like  a 
wall.  She  raised  the  bundle  of  umbrellas  to  her  face 
and  kissed  the  curved  top  of  his  stick.  And  now,  what  ? 

They  drove  to  the  hotel.  Then  they  had  dinner.  In 
the  evening  they  sat  on  the  balcony,  and  watched  the 
people  passing  below  them.  Handsome  Italian  officers, 
moustache-twisting  and  sword-clanking,  passed  in  twos 
and  threes,  eyeing  the  hurrying  modistes  and  the  self- 


THE   DEVOUEERS  257 

conscious  signorine  that  walked  beside  their  portly 
mothers  and  fathers.  The  military  band  was  playing 
in  the  Piazza  Vittorio  Emanuele,  and  the  music  reached 
the  balcony  faintly.  Then  Nancy  told  him  about  her 
work.  About  the  first  book  of  verse  that  had  set  all 
Italy  aflame,  about  the  second,  The  Book,  the  work  of 
her  life,  that  had  been  interrupted. 

He  listened,  smoking  his  cigar,  and  making  no  com- 
ment. Then  he  spoke. 

"There  is  a  boat  from  here  on  Wednesday.  The 
Kaiser  Wilhelm.  A  good  old  boat.  Go  over  and  fetch 
the  child."  Then  he  halted,  and  said :  "  Or  do  you  like 
her  to  be  brought  up  in  America  ?  " 

"  Oh  no !  "  said  Nancy. 

"Well,  fetch  her,"  he  said.  "And  fetch  the  old 
Fraulein  across  too,  if  she  likes  to  come.  Then  go  to 
Porto  Venere,  or  to  Spezia,  or  anywhere  you  like,  and 
take  a  house,  and  sit  down  and  work." 

She  could  not  speak.     She  saw  Porto  Venere  white  in 
the  sunshine,  tip-tilted  over  the  sea,  and  she  saw  The    ^ 
Book  that  was  to  live,  to  live  after  all. 

As  she  did  not  answer  he  said  :  "  Don't  you  like  it  ?  " 

She  took  his  hand,  and  pressed  it  to  her  lips,  and  to  her 
cheek,  and  to  her  heart.  She  could  not  answer.  And 
his  chilly  blue  eyes  grew  suddenly  lighter  than  usual. 
"  Dear  little  Miss  Brown,"  he  said  ;  "  dear,  dear,  foolish, 
little  Miss  Brown."  And,  bending  forward,  he  kissed  I  / 
her  forehead.  ' '  / 

XVII 

THE  Oartanhaus  on  Staten  Island  in  the  twilight,  with 
lamplight  and  firelight  gleaming  through  its  casements, 
and  a  little  hat  of  snow  on  its  roof,  looked  like  a  Christ- 


258  THE  DEVOUKERS 

mas-card,  when  Nancy  hurried  through  the  narrow 
garden-gate,  and  ran  up  the  tiny  gravel-path.  She  had 
left  all  her  belongings  at  the  dock  in  order  not  to  lose  an 
instant.  Anne-Marie's  pink  fingers  were  dragging  at  her 
heart. 

Fraulein,  foggy  as  to  time-tables  and  arrivals  of  boats, 
had  thought  it  wisest  not  to  attempt  a  meeting  at  the 
crowded,  draughty,  New  York  landing-station.  She  had 
kept  Anne-Marie  indoors  for  the  last  three  days,  saying : 
"  Your  mother  may  be  here  any  moment."  After  the  first 
thirty-six  hours  of  poignant  expectancy  and  frequent 
runnings  to  the  gate,  Anne-Marie  had  silently  despised 
Fraulein  for  telling  naughty  untruths,  and  had  whispered 
in  the  hairy  ear  of  Schopenhauer  that  she  would  never 
again  believe  a  word  Fraulein  ever  said  again.  Schopen- 
hauer—  whose  name  had  been  chosen  by  Fraulein  for 
educational  purposes,  namely  (as  she  wrote  in  her  diary), 
"to  enlarge  the  childish  mind  by  familiarity  with  the 
names  of  authors  and  philosophers  "  —  was  sympathetic 
and  equally  sceptical  when  Fraulein  Milller  sibilantly 
urged  him :  "  Schoppi,  Schoppi,  mistress  is  coming.  Go 
seek  mistress  !  Seek  mistress,  sir."  But  Schoppi,  who 
had  searched  and  sniffed  every  corner  of  the  hedge, 
and  dug  rapid  holes  round  the  early  cabbages  and  in  the 
flower-bed,  knew  that  "  mistress  "  was  a  pleasurably  ex- 
citing, but  merely  delusive  and  empty  sound.  And  so 
nobody  expected  Nancy  as  she  ran  up  the  path  in  the 
twilight,  and  saw  the  lights  shining  through  the  casement. 

Her  heart  beat  in  trepidant  joy.  She  had  been  so 
anxious  about  Anne-Marie.  During  the  last  few  hours 
of  the  journey  she  had  had  ghostly  and  tragic  imaginings. 
What  if  Anne-Marie  had  been  running  about  the  island, 
and  had  fallen  into  the  sea  ?  What  if  a  motor-car  —  her 


THE  DEVOURERS  259 

heart  had  given  a  great  leap,  and  then  dropped,  like  a 
ball  of  lead,  turning  her  faint  with  reminiscent  terror. 
She  would  not  think  about  it.  No,  she  would  not  think 
of  such  things  any  more.  But  what  if  Anne-Marie  had 
scarlet  fever?  Yes!  suddenly  she  felt  convinced  that 
Anne-Marie  had  scarlet  fever,  that  she  would  see  the 
little  red  flag  of  warning  hanging  out  over  the  Gartenhaus 
door.  .  .  . 

Nancy  made  ready  to  knock;  then,  before  doing  so, 
she  dropped  quickly  to  her  knees  on  the  snowy  doorstep, 
and  folded  her  hands  in  a  childlike  attitude  of  prayer: 
"  0  God !  let  me  find  Anne-Marie  safe  and  happy ! " 

Almost  in  answer  a  sound  struck  her  ear  —  a  chord  of 
sweetness  and  harmony,  then  a  long,  lonely  note,  and 
after  it  a  quick  twirl  of  running  notes  like  a  ripple  of 
laughter.  The  violin ! 

Nancy  sprang  from  the  doorstep,  and  ran  under  the 
window  that  was  lit  up.  She  scrambled  on  to  the  rockery 
under  it,  and,  scratching  her  hand  against  the  climbing 
rose-branches,  she  grasped  the  ledge  and  looked  in 
through  the  white-curtained  glass.  It  was  Anne-Marie. 
Standing  in  the  circle  of  light  from  the  lamp,  with  the 
violin  held  high  on  her  left  arm,  and  her  cheek  resting 
lightly  against  it,  she  looked  like  a  little  angel  musician  of 
Beato  Angelico. 

Her  eyes  were  cast  down,  her  floating  hair  rippled  over 
her  face.  Nancy's  throat  tightened  as  she  looked. 
Then  Nancy's  brain  staggered  as  she  listened.  For  the 
child  was  playing  like  an  artist.  Trills  and  arpeggios 
ran  from  under  her  fingers  like  clear  water.  Now  a  full 
and  sonorous  chord  checked  their  springing  lightness, 
and  again  the  bubbling  runs  rilled  out,  sprinkling  the 
twilight  with  music. 


260  THE  DEVOUREKS 

Nancy's  hand  slipped  from  the  sill,  and  a  rose-branch 
hit  the  window.  Then  the  fox-terrier's  sharp  bark  rang 
through  the  house  ;  there  were  hurrying  feet  in  the  hall ; 
the  door  was  opened  by  the  smiling  Elisabeth  —  and 
Fraulein  was  exclaiming  and  questioning,  and  Anne- 
Marie  was  in  her  mother's  arms.  Warm,  and  living, 
and  tight  she  held  her  creature,  thanking  God  for  the 
touch  of  the  fleecy  hair  against  her  face,  for  the  fresh 
cheek  that  smelt  of  soap,  and  the  soft  breath  that  smelt 
of  grass  and  flowers. 

"  Anne-Marie !  Anne-Marie  !  Have  you  missed  me, 
darling  ?  " 

Anne-Marie  was  sobbing  wildly.  "No!  No!  I 
haven't !  Only  now  !  Only  now ! " 

"  But  now  you  have  me,  my  own  love." 

"  But  now  I  miss  you !  Now  I  miss  you,"  sobbed 
Anne-Marie,  incoherent  and  despairing.  And  her 
mother  understood.  Mothers  understand. 

"Anne-Marie!  I  shall  never  go  away  from  you 
again !  I  promise ! " 

Anne-Marie  looked  up  through  shimmering  tears. 
"  Honest  engine  ?  "  she  asked  brokenly,  putting  out  a 
small  damp  hand. 

"Honest  engine,"  said  Nancy,  placing  her  hand 
solemnly  in  the  hand  of  her  little  daughter.  Schopen- 
hauer, squirming  with  barks,  was  patted  and  admired, 
and  made  to  sit  up  leaning  against  the  leg  of  the  table ; 
and  Fraulein  told  the  news  about  Anne-Marie  having 
dock  gegessen  the  tapioca-puddings,  but  never  the 
porridge,  and  seldom  the  vegetables.  Then,  as  it  was 
late,  Anne-Marie  was  conducted  upstairs  by  everybody, 
including  Schopenhauer,  and  while  Elisabeth  unfastened 
buttons  and  tapes,  Fraulein  brushed  and  plaited  the 


THE  DEVOURERS  261 

golden  hair,  and  Nancy,  on  her  knees  before  the  child, 
laughed  with  her  and  kissed  her. 

When  she  was  in  bed  Elisabeth  and  Schopenhauer  had 
to  sit  in  the  dark  beside  her  until  she  slept. 

"  But,  Fraulein,  that  will  never  do !  "  said  Nancy,  as 
they  went  down  the  little  staircase  together  arm-in-arm. 
"  You  spoil  her  shockingly." 

"  Hush ! "  said  Fraulein.  And  as  they  entered  the 
cheerful  drawing-room,  where  the  violin  lay  on  the  table, 
and  the  bow  on  a  chair,  and  a  piece  of  rosin  on  the  sofa, 
Fraulein  stopped,  and  said  impressively,  "  You  do  not 
know  that  that  child  is  a  Genius !  " 

In  Fraulein's  voice,  as  she  said  the  word  "  genius," 
was  awe  and  homage,  service  and  genuflexion.  Nancy 
sat  down,  and  looked  at  the  little  piece  of  rosin  stuck 
on  its  green  cloth  on  the  sofa.  "  A  Genius !  "  The  word 
and  the  awestruck  tone  brought  a  recollection  to  her 
mind.  Years  ago,  when  she  had  stepped  into  the 
dazzling  light  of  her  first  success,  and  all  the  poets  of 
Italy  had  come  to  congratulate  and  to  flatter,  One  had 
not  come.  He  was  the  great  and  sombre  singer  of 
revolt,  the  Pagan  poet  of  modern  Rome.  He  was  the 
Genius,  denounced,  anathematized  and  exalted  in  turn 
by  the  hot-headed  youth  of  Italy.  He  lived  apart  from 
the  world,  aloof  from  the  clamour  made  around  his  name, 
shunning  both  laudators  and  detractors,  impassive  alike 
to  invective  and  acclamation.  To  him,  with  his  curt 
permission,  Nancy  herself  had  gone.  A  disciple  and 
apostle  of  his,  long-bearded  and  short  of  words,  had 
come  to  conduct  her  to  the  Poet's  house  in  Bologna. 
It  was  an  old  house  on  the  broad,  ancient  ramparts  of 
the  city,  where  an  armed  sentinel  marched,  gun  on 
shoulder,  up  and  down.  Nancy  remembered  that  she 


262  THE  DEVOURERS 

had  laughed,  and  said  frivolously  :  "  I  suppose  the  Poet 
has  the  soldier  on  guard  to  prevent  his  ideas  being 
stolen."  The  apostle  had  not  smiled.  Then  she  had 
entered  the  house  alone,  for  the  apostle  was  not  invited. 

The  Spirit  of  Silence  was  on  the  cold  stone  staircase. 
The  door  had  been  opened  by  a  pale-faced,  stupid-looking 
servant,  whose  only  mission  in  life  seemed  to  be  not  to 
make  a  noise.  Three  hushed  figures,  the  daughters  of 
the  Poet,  had  bidden  her  in  a  half-whisper  to  sit  down. 
They  all  had  a  look  about  them  as  if  they  lived  with 
something  that  devoured  them  day  by  day.  And  they 
looked  as  if  they  liked  it.  They  lived  to  see  that  the 
Genius  was  not  disturbed.  Then  the  Genius  had  entered 
the  room  —  a  fierce  and  sombre-looking  man  of  sixty, 
with  a  leonine  head  and  impatient  eyes.  And  she,  seeing 
him,  understood  that  one  should  be  willing  to  tiptoe 
through  life  with  subdued  gesture  and  hushed  voice,  so 
that  he  were  not  disturbed.  She  understood  that  he 
had  the  right  to  devour. 

He  carried  her  little  book  in  his  hand,  and  spoke  in 
brief,  gruff  tones.  "  Three  women,"  he  said,  his  flashing 
eyes  looking  her  up  and  down  as  if  he  were  angry  with 
her,  "  have  been  poets :  Sappho,  Desbordes  Valmore, 
Elizabeth  Browning.  And  now  —  you.  Go  and  work." 

That  was  all.  But  it  had  been  enough  to  send  Nancy 
away  dazed  with  happiness.  The  Devoured  Ones  had 
opened  the  door  for  her,  and  silently  shown  her  out ; 
and  as  she  went  tremblingly  down  the  steps  she  had 
heard  a  heavy  tread  above  her,  and  had  stopped  to  look 
back.  He  had  come  out  on  to  the  landing,  and  was 
looking  after  her.  She  stood  still,  with  a  beating  heart. 
And  he  had  spoken  again.  Three  words  :  "  Aspetto  e 
confido  —  I  wait  and  trust." 


o 


THE   DEVOURERS  263 


She  had  replied,  "  Grazie,"  and  then  had  gone  running 
down  the  stairs,  trembling  and  stumbling,  knowing  that 
his  eyes  were  upon  her. 

"  Aspetto  e  confido"  He  had  waited  and  trusted  in 
vain.  She  had  never  written  another  book.  And  now 
he  would  never  read  what  she  might  write,  for  he  was 
dead. 

Nancy  still  stared  at  the  little  piece  of  rosin  stuck  on 
its  dentelated  green  cloth  —  stared  at  it  vaguely,  unseeing. 
What?  Anne-Marie  was  a  Genius?  The  little  tender, 
wild-eyed  birdling  was  one  of  the  Devourers?  Yes, 
'•  already  in  the  Gartenhaus  there  was  the  atmosphere  of 
1  hushed  reverence,  the  attitude  of  sacrifice  and  waiting. 
Fraulein  spoke  in  whispers;  Elisabeth  and  the  fox- 
terrier  sat  in  the  dark  while  the  Genius  went  to  sleep. 
Her  violin  possessed  the  table,  her  bow  the  armchair, 
her  rosin  the  sofa.  Fraulein  had  all  the  amazed  stupe- 
faction of  one  of  the  Devoured. 

"The  child  is  a  Genius,"  she  was  repeating.  "She 
will  be  like  Wagner.  Only  greater." 

Then  she  seemed  to  awake  to  the  smaller  realities  of 
life.  "  What  did  the  Firm  say  ?  When  does  your  book 
appear  ?  My  poor  dear,  you  must  be  tired  !  you  must 
be  hungry  !  But,  hush  !  the  child's  room  is  just  over- 
head, so,  if  you  do  not  mind,  I  will  give  you  your  supper 
in  the  back-kitchen.  Anne-Marie,  when  she  is  not 
eating,  does  not  like  the  sound  of  plates." 

XVIII 

So  Nancy  did  not  go  to  Porto  Venere  after  all.  Nor  to 
Spezia.  For  there  was  no  great  violin  teacher  in  either 
of  those  blue  and  lovely  places. 


264  THE   DEVOURERS 

There  were  only  balconied  rooms,  with  wide  views 
over  the  Mediterranean  Sea,  where  Nancy  could  have 
written  her  Book,  and  seen  visions  and  dreamed  dreams  ; 
but  surely,  as  Fraulein  said,  she  could  write  her  book  in 
any  nice  quiet  room,  with  a  table  in  it,  and  pen  and  ink, 
while  Anne-Marie  must  cultivate  her  gift  and  her  calling. 
Anne-Marie  must  study  her  violin.  So  Nancy  wrote, 
and  explained  this  to  the  Ogre,  and  then  she  went  with 
Anne-Marie  and  Fraulein  to  Prague,  where  the  greatest  of 
all  violin-teachers  lived,  fitting  left  hands  with  wonderful 
technique,  and  right  hands  with  marvellous  pliancy ; 
teaching  slim  fingers  to  dance  and  scamper  and  skip 
on  four  tense  strings,  and  supple  wrists  to  wield  a  skim- 
ming, or  control  a  creeping,  bow.  And  this  greatest  of 
teachers  took  little  Anne-Marie  to  his  heart.  He  also 
called  her  the  Wunkerkind,  and  set  her  eager  feet,  still 
in  their  white  socks  and  button  shoes,  on  the  steep  path 
that  leads  up  the  Hill  of  Glory. 

Nancy  unpacked  her  manuscripts  in  an  apartment  in 
one  of  the  not  very  wide  streets  of  old  Prague ;  opposite 
her  window  was  a  row  of  brown  and  yellow  stone  houses ; 
she  had  a  table,  and  pen  and  ink,  and  there  was  nothing 
to  disturb  her.  True,  she  could  hear  Anne- Marie 
playing  the  violin  two  rooms  off,  but  that,  of  course, 
was  a  joy ;  besides,  when  all  the  doors  were  shut  one 
could  hardly  hear  anything,  especially  if  one  tied 
a  scarf  or  something  round  one's  head,  and  over 
one's  ears. 

So  Nancy  had  no  excuse  for  not  working.  She  told 
herself  so  a  hundred  times  a  day,  as  she  sat  at  the 
table  with  the  scarf  round  her  head,  staring  at  the  yellow 
house  opposite.  Through  the  open  window  came  the 
sound  of  loud,  jerky  Czech  voices.  The  strange  new 


THE   DEVOUKERS  265 

language,  of  which  Nancy  had  learned  a  few  dozen 
words,  rang  in  her  ears  continuously :  Kavarna  .  .  . 
Vychod  .  .  .  Lekarna  .  .  .  the  senseless  words  turned  in 
her  head  like  a  many-coloured  merry-go-round.  Even 
at  night  in  her  dreams  she  seemed  to  be  holding  con- 
versations in  Czech.  But  that  would  pass,  and  she 
would  be  able  to  work ;  for  now  she  had  no  anxieties  and 
no  preoccupations.  Fraulein  looked  after  Anne-Marie, 
body  and  soul,  with  unceasing  and  agitated  care,  deem- 
ing it  as  important  that  she  should  have  her  walk  as  that 
she  should  play  the  "  Zigeunerweisen,"  that  she  should 
say  her  prayers  as  that  she  should  eat  her  soup.  And 
Nancy  had  no  material  preoccupations  either.  She  had 
decided  to  accept  gratefully,  and  without  scruple,  all 
that  she  needed  for  two  years  from  her  friend  the  Ogre. 
Long  before  then  The  Book  would  be  out,  and  she  could 
repay  him.  And  what  mattered  repaying  him  ?  All  he 
wanted  was  that  she  should  be  happy,  and  live  her  own 
life  for  two  years.  He  would  have  to  go  back  to  Peru, 
and  stay  there  for  about  that  period  of  time.  Let  her 
meanwhile  live  her  own  life  and  fulfil  her  destiny  —  thus 
he  wrote  to  her.  And  the  Prager  Bankverein  had  money 
for  her  when  she  needed  it. 

So  Nancy  sat  before  her  manuscripts  and  lived  her 
own  life,  and  tried  not  to  hear  the  violin,  and  not  to 
mind  interruptions.  In  her  heart  was  a  great  longing 
—  the  longing  to  see  the  Ogre  again  before  he  left 
Europe,  a  great,  aching  desire  for  the  blue  chilliness  of 
his  eyes,  for  his  stern  manner,  and  his  gruff  voice,  and 
for  the  shy  greatness  of  his  heart  that  her  own  heart 
loved  and  understood. 

And  besides  this  ache  was  the  yearn  and  strain  and 
sorrow  of  her  destiny  unfulfilled.  For  once  again  the 


266  THE   DEVOURERS 

sense  of  time  passing,  of  life  running  out  of  her  grasp, 
bit  at  her  breast  like  an  adder. 

"La belle  qui  veut, 
La  belle  qui  n'ose 
Cueillir  les  roses 
Du  jar  din  bleu." 

She  sat  down  and  wrote  to  him.  "I  cannot  work. 
I  cannot  work.  I  am  swept  away  and  overwhelmed  by 
some  chimeric  longing  that  has  no  name.  My  soul 
drowns  and  is  lost  in  its  indefinite  and  fathomless  desire. 
Will  you  take  me  away  before  you  go,  away  to  some 
rose-lit,  jasmine-starred  nook  in  Italy,  where  my  heart 
may  find  peace  again  ?  I  feel  such  strength,  such 
boundless,  turbulent  power,  yet  my  spirit  is  pinioned 
and  held  down  like  a  giant  angel  sitting  in  a  cave  with 
huge  wings  furled.  .  .  . 

"  You  have  unclosed  the  sweep  of  heaven  before  me ; 
I  will  bring  the  sunshot  skies  down  to  your  feet.  .  .  ." 

The  door  opened,  and  Fraulein's  head  appeared,  solemn 
and  sibylline,  with  tears  shining  behind  her  spectacles. 

"Nancy,  to-day  for  the  first  time  Anne-Marie  is  to 
play  Beethoven.  Will  you  come  ?  " 

Yes,  Nancy  would  come.  She  followed  Fraulein  into 
the  room  where  Anne-Marie  was  with  the  Professor  and 
his  assistant. 

The  Professor  did  not  like  to  play  the  piano,  so  he 
had  brought  the  assistant  with  him,  who  sat  at  the 
piano,  nodding  a  large,  rough  black  head  in  time  to  the 
music.  Anne-Marie  was  in  front  of  her  stand.  The 
Professor,  with  his  hands  behind  him,  watched  her. 
The  Beethoven  Romance  in  F  began. 

The  simple  initial  melody  slid  smoothly  from  under 
the  child's  fingers,  and  was  taken  up  and  repeated  by  the 


THE  DEVOURERS  207 

piano.  The  wilful  crescendo  of  the  second  phrase 
worked  itself  up  to  the  passionate  high  note,  and  was 
coaxed  back  again  into  gentleness  by  the  shy  and  tender 
trills,  as  a  wrathful  man  by  the  call  of  a  child.  Martial 
notes  by  the  piano.  The  assistant's  head  bobbed 
violently,  and  now  Beethoven  led  Anne-Marie's  bow, 
gently,  by  tardigrade  steps,  into  the  first  melody  again. 
Once  more,  the  head  at  the  piano  bobbed  over  his  solo. 
Then,  on  the  high  F,  down  came  the  bow  of  Anne- 
Marie,  decisive  and  vehement. 

"  That's  right ! "  shouted  the  Professor  suddenly. 
"  Fa,  mi,  sol  —  play  that  on  the  fourth  string." 

Anne-Marie  nodded  without  stopping.  Eight  ac- 
cented notes  by  the  piano,  echoed  by  Anne-Marie. 

"  That  is  to  sound  like  a  trumpet !  "  cried  the  master. 

"  Yes,  yes ;  I  remember,"  said  Anne-Marie. 

And  now  for  the  third  time  the  melody  returned,  and 
Anne-Marie  played  it  softly,  as  in  a  dream,  with  a 
gruppetto  in  pianissimo  that  made  the  Professor  push  his 
hands  into  his  pockets,  and  the  assistant  turn  his  head 
from  the  piano  to  look  at  her.  At  the  end  the  slowly 
ascending  scales  soared  and  floated  into  the  distance, 
and  the  three  last,  calling  notes  fell  from  far  away. 

No  one  spoke  for  a  moment ;  then  the  Professor  went 
close  to  the  child  and  said  : 

"  Why  did  you  say,  '  I  remember '  when  I  told  you 
about  the  trumpet  notes  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Anne-Marie,  with  the  vague 
look  she  always  had  after  she  had  played. 

"  What  did  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  meant  that  I  understood,"  said  Anne-Marie. 

The  Professor  frowned  at  her,  while  his  lips  worked. 

"You  said,  'I  remember.'      And   I   believe  you  re- 


268  THE  DEVOURERS 

member.  I  believe  you  are  not  learning  anything  new. 
You  are  remembering  something  you  have  known 
before." 

Fraulein  intervened  excitedly.  "  Ach !  Herr  Pro- 
fessor! I  assure  you  the  child  has  never  seen  that 
piece!  I  have  been  with  her  since  the  first  day  she 
uberhaupt  had  the  violin,  and  —  " 

The  Professor  waved  an  impatient  hand.  He  was 
still  looking  at  Anne-Marie.  "  Who  is  it  ?  "  and  he 
shook  his  grey  head  tremulously.  "  Whom  have  we 
here  ?  Is  it  Paganini  ?  Or  Mozart  ?  I  hope  it  is 
Mozart."  Then  he  turned  to  the  man  at  the  piano, 
who  had  his  elbows  on  the  notes,  and  his  face  hidden  in 
his  hands.  "What  say  you,  Bertolini?  Who  is  with 
us  in  this  involucrum  ?  " 

"  I  know  not.  I  am  mute,"  said  the  black-haired 
man  in  moved  tones. 

"Thank  the  Fates  that  you  are  not  deaf,"  said  the 
Professor,  looking  vaguely  for  his  hat,  "or  you  would 
not  have  heard  this  wonder." 

Then  he  took  his  leave,  for  he  was  a  busy  man. 
Bertolini  remained  to  pack  up  the  Professor's  precious 
Guarnerius  del  Gesu,  dearer  to  him  than  wife  and 
child,  and  his  music,  and  his  gloves,  and  his  glasses,  and 
anything  else  that  he  left  behind  him,  for  the  Professor 
was  an  absent-minded  man. 

Then  Nancy  said  to  the  assistant :  "  Are  you  Italian  ?  " 

"  Sissignora,"  said  Bertolini  eagerly. 

"  So  am  I,"  said  Nancy.     And  they  were  friends. 

Bertolini  came  the  next  day  to  ask  if  he  might  prac- 
tice with  "little  Wunder,"  as  he  called  her.  He  also 
came  the  next  day,  and  the  day  after,  and  then  every 
day.  He  was  a  second-rate  violinist,  and  a  third-rate 


THE  DEVOURERS  269 

pianist;  but  he  was  an  absolutely  first-rate  musician, 
an  extravagant,  impassioned,  boisterous  musician,  whose 
shouts  of  excitement,  after  the  first  half-hour  of  polite 
shyness,  could  be  heard  all  over  the  house. 

Anne-Marie  loved  to  hear  him  vociferate.  She  used 
to  watch  his  face  when  she  purposely  played  a  false 
note ;  she  liked  to  see  him  crinkle  up  his  nose  as  if  some- 
thing had  stung  him,  and  open  a  wild  mouth  to  shout. 
Once  she  played  through  an  entire  piece  in  F,  making 
every  B  natural  instead  of  flat.  "  Si  bemolle  !  B  flat !  " 
said  Bertolini  the  first  time.  "  Bemolle  !  "  cried  Bertolini 
the  second  time.  "  BEMOLLE  ! "  he  roared,  trampling 
on  the  pedals,  and  with  his  hand  grasping  his  hair,  that 
looked  like  a  curly  black  mat  fitted  well  over  his  head. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  Bemolle?"  asked  Fraulein, 
raising  bland  eyes  from  her  needlework. 

Anne-Marie  laughed.  "I  don't  know  what  is  the 
matter  with  him.  I  think  he's  crazy."  And  thus 
Signor  Bertolini  was  christened  Bemolle  for  all  time. 

Bemolle,  who  was  a  composer,  now  composed  no  more. 
He  soon  became  one  of  the  Devoured.  His  mornings 
were  given  up  to  the  Professor ;  his  afternoons  he  gave  to 
Anne-Marie.  He  would  arrive  soon  after  lunch,  and  sit 
down  at  the  piano,  tempting  the  child  from  playthings 
or  story-book  by  rippling  accompaniments  or  dulcet 
chords.  And  because  the  Professor  had  said :  "  With 
this  child  one  can  begin  at  the  end,"  Bemolle  lured  her 
long  before  her  ninth  birthday  across  the  ditches  and 
pitfalls  of  Ernst  and  Paganini,  over  the  peaks  and 
crests  of  Beethoven  and  Bach. 

On  the  day  that  Nancy  was  called  from  her  writing 
to  hear  Anne-Marie  play  Bach's  "Chaconne,"  Nancy 
folded  up  the  scarf  that  she  had  used  to  cover  her  eara 


270  THE  DEVOURERS 

|||  with,  and  put  it  away.     Then  she  took  her  manuscripts, 
,uand  kissed  them,  and  said  good-bye  to  them  for  ever, 

U  and  put  them  away. 

***** 

Soon  afterwards  the  Ogre  came  to  Prague.  He  had 
received  Nancy's  letter  about  Italy,  and  had  come  to 
answer  it  in  person.  It  was  good  to  see  him  again. 
His  largeness  filled  the  room,  his  mastery  controlled  and 
soothed  the  spirit.  He  was  the  "wall"  that  Clarissa 
had  spoken  of  in  the  Villa  Solitudine  long  ago. 

Lucky  is  the  woman  who  belongs  to  a  wall.  When 
she  has  bruised  and  fretted  herself  in  trying  to  push 
through  it,  and  get  round  it,  and  jump  over  it,  let  her  sit 
down  quietly  in  its  protecting  shadow  and  be  grateful. 

An  hour  after  his  arrival  the  imperious  Anne-Marie 
was  'subjugated  and  entranced,  Fraulein  was  a-bustle 
and  a-quiver  with  solicitude  as  to  his  physical  welfare, 
and  Nancy  sat  back  in  a  large  armchair,  and  felt  that 
nothing  could  hurt,  or  ruffle,  or  trouble  her  any  more. 

In  the  evening,  when  Fraulein  had  taken  Anne-Marie 
to  bed,  the  Ogre  smoked  his  long  cigar,  and  said  to 
Nancy : 

"There  is  no  jasmin  in  this  season  in  Italy.  And 
not  many  roses.  But  the  place  that  you  asked  for  is 
ready.  It  has  a  large  garden.  When  I  have  settled 
you  there,  I  am  going  to  Peru." 

"  Oh,  must  you  ?  "  said  Nancy.     "  Must  you  really  ? '' 

"  The  Mina  de  1'Agua  needs  looking  after.  Something 
has  gone  wrong  with  it.  I  ought  to  have  gone  three 
months  ago,  when  I  first  wrote  to  you  that  I  should,"  said 
the  Ogre.  "But  enough.  That  does  not  concern  you." 

Nancy  looked  very  meek.  "I  am  sorry,"  she  said 
apologetically. 


THE  DEVOURERS  271 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  Ogre  "  Now  let  us  talk  about 
your  work  and  Italy.  When  do  you  start  ?  " 

Those  four  words  thrilled  Nancy  with  indescribable 
joy.  "When  do  you  start?"  What  a  serene,  what  an 
attractive  phrase ! 

"  Can  you  be  ready  on  Thursday  ?  "  Again  the  balm 
and  charm  of  the  question  ran  into  Nancy's  veins.  She 
felt  that  she  could  listen  to  questions  of  this  kind  for 
ever.  But  he  stopped  questioning,  and  expected  an 
answer.  It  was  a  hesitant  answer.  She  said: 

"  What  about  Anne-Marie's  violin  ?  " 

He  waited  for  her  to  explain,  and  she  did  so.  Anne- 
Marie  was  going  to  be  a  portentous  virtuose.  The 
great  master  had  said  so.  It  would  never  do  to  take 
her  away  from  Prague.  Nowhere  would  she  get  such 
lessons,  nowhere  would  there  be  a  Bemolle  to  devote 
himself  utterly  and  entirely  to  her. 

The  Ogre  listened  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  Nancy. 

«  Well  ?     Then  what  ?  " 

"  Ah  ! "  said  Nancy.     "  Then  what ! "     And  she  sighed. 

"  Do  you  want  to  leave  her  here  ?  "  asked  the  Ogre. 

"No,"  said  Nancy. 

"  Do  you  want  to  take  her  with  you  ?  " 

"  N-no,"  said  Nancy. 

"  Then  what  ?  "  said  the  Ogre  again. 

Nancy  raised  her  clouded  eyes  under  their  wing-like 
eyebrows  to  his  strong  face.  "  Help  me,"  she  said. 

He  finished  smoking  his  cigar  without  speaking ; 
then  he  helped  her.  He  looked  in  her  face  with  his  firm 
eyes  while  he  spoke  to  her. 

,  He    said:  "You    cannot    tread  two  ways    at    once. 

You  said  your  genius  was  a  giant  angel  sitting  in  a  cavey 
with  huge  wings  furled." 


vl 


272  THE  DEVOURERS 

"Yes;  but  since  then  the  genius  of  Anne-Marie  has 
flown  with  clarion  wings  into  the  light." 

"  You  said  that  your  unexpressed  thoughts,  your 
unfulfilled  destiny,  hurt  you." 

"  Yes ;  but  am  I  to  silence  a  singing  fountain  of 
music  in  order  that  my  silent,  unwritten  books  may 
live  ?  " 

He  did  not  speak  for  some  time.  Then  he  said: 
"  Has  it  never  occurred  to  you  that  it  might  be  better 
for  the  little  girl  to  be  just  a  little  girl,  and  nothing 
else?" 

"  No,"  said  Nancy.     "  It  never  occurred  to  me." 

"Might  it  not  have  been  better  if  you  yourself,  in- 
stead of  being  a  poet,  had  been  merely  a  happy  woman  ?  " 

"  Ah,  perhaps ! "  said  Nancy.  "  But  Glory  looked  me 
in  the  face  when  I  was  young  —  Glory,  the  sorcerer !  — 
the  Pied  Piper !  —  and  I  have  had  to  follow.  Through 
the  days  and  the  nights,  through  and  over  and  across 
everything,  his  call  has  dragged  at  my  heart.  And,  oh ! 
it  is  not  his  call  that  hurts ;  it  is  the  being  pulled  back 
and  stopped  by  all  the  outstretched  hands.  The  small, 
everyday  duties  and  the  great  loves  that  hold  one  and 
keep  one  and  stop  one  —  they  it  is  that  break  one's 
heart  in  two.  Yes,  in  two,  for  half  one's  heart  has  gone 
away  with  the  Piper."  She  drew  in  a  long  breath, 
remembering  many  things.  Then  she  said :  "  And  now 
he  is  piping  to  Anne-Marie.  She  has  heard  him,  and  she 
will  go.  And  if  her  path  leads  over  my  unfulfilled  hopes 
and  my  unwritten  books,  she  shall  tread  and  trample 
and  dance  on  them.  And  good  luck  to  her ! " 

"  Well,  then  —  good  luck  to  her ! "  said  the  Ogre. 

And  Nancy  said :  "  Thank  you." 

"Now  you  are   quite  clear,"   he   said  after  a  pause; 


THE   DEVOURERS  273 

"  aud  you  must  never  regret  it.  If  you  want  your  child 
to  be  an  eagle,  you  must  pull  out  your  own  wings  for 
her." 

"  Every  feather  of  them ! "  said  Nancy. 

"And  when  you  have  done  so,  then  she  will  spread 
them  and  fly  away  from  you." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Nancy. 

"  And  you  will  be  alone." 

"  Yes,"  said  Nancy. 

And  she  closed  her  eyes  to  look  into  the  coming 
years. 

XIX 

THE  Ogre  remained  in  Prague  a  week,  and  took  Anne- 
Marie  on  the  Moldau  and  to  the  White  Mountain,  to  the 
Stromovka  and  the  Petrin  Hill.  Bemolle  was  frantic. 
For  six  days  Anne-Marie  had  not  touched  the  violin. 
He  had  looked  forward  to  long  hours  of  music  with  Anne- 
Marie,  and  had  prepared  her  entire  repertoire  carefully 
in  contrasting  programmes  for  the  English  visitor's 
pleasure.  But  the  English  visitor  would  have  none  of 
it,  or  very  little,  and  that  little  not  of  the  best.  Not 
much  Beethoven,  scarcely  any  Bach,  no  Brahms ! 
Only  Schubert  and  Grieg.  Short  pieces!  Then  the 
large  man  would  get  up  and  shake  hands,  first  with 
Anne-Marie,  then  with  Bemolle,  and  say  "  Thank  you, 
thank  you,"  and  the  music  was  over. 

On  the  last  day  of  his  stay  he  came  before  luncheon, 
and  went  to  the  valley  of  the  Sarka  alone  with  "  Miss 
Brown  "  —  he  never  called  Nancy  anything  else,  and  she 
loved  the  name.  It  was  a  clear  midsummer  day.  The 
country  was  alight  with  poppies,  like  a  vulgar  summer 
hat.  The  heart  of  Miss  Brown  was  sad. 


274  THE   DEVOURERS 

"  I  leave  this  evening,"  he  said,  "  at  8.40." 

"  You  have  told  me  that  twenty  times,"  said  Miss 
Brown. 

"I  like  you  to  think  of  it,"  he  said;  and  she  did  not 
answer.  "I  am  going  back  to  the  mines,  back  to 
Peru  —  " 

"  You  have  said  that  two  hundred  times,"  said  Miss 
Brown  pettishly. 

He  paid  no  attention.  "To  Peru,"  he  continued, 
"  and  I  may  have  to  stay  there  a  year,  or  two  years  .  .  . 
to  look  after  the  mine.  Then  I  return."  He  coughed. 
"Or  —  I  do  not  return." 

No  answer. 

"You  have  not  changed  your  mind  about  going  to 
Italy  and  writing  your  book  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Nancy,  with  little  streaks  of  white  on  each 
side  of  her  nostrils. 

« I  thought  not." 

Then  they  walked  along  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  in 
silence.  The  wind  ran  over  the  grasses,  and  the  birds 
sang. 

"  Nancy  !  "  he  said.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  called 
her  by  her  name.  She  covered  her  face  and  began  to 
cry.  He  did  not  attempt  to  comfort  her.  After  a  while 
he  said,  "  Sit  down,"  and  she  sat  on  the  grass  and  went 
on  crying. 

"  Do  you  love  me  very  much  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Dreadfully,"  said  Nancy,  looking  up  at  him  help- 
lessly through  her  tears. 

He  sat  down  beside  her. 

"  And  do  you  know  that  I  love  you  very  much  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  know,"  sobbed  Nancy. 

There  was  a  short  silence.     Then  he  said  : 


THE   DEVOURERS  275 

"In  one  of  your  letters  long  ago  you  wrote:  'This 
love  across  the  distance,  without  the  aid  of  any  one  of 
our  senses,  this  is  the  Blue  Rose  of  love,  the  mystic 
marvel  blown  in  our  souls  for  the  delight  of  Heaven.' 
Shall  we  pluck  it,  Nancy,  and  wear  it  for  our  own 
delight  ?  " 

The  grasses  curtseyed  and  the  river  ran.  He  took 
her  hand  from  her  face.  Nancy  looked  at  him,  and  the 
tears  brimmed  over. 

"  Then,"  she  said  brokenly,  "  it  would  not  be  the 
Blue  Rose  any  more." 

«  True,"  he  said. 

"  Then  it  would  be  a  common,  everyday,  pink-faced 
flower  like  every  other." 

"  True,"  he  said  again. 

She  withdrew  her  hand  from  his.  Then  his  hand 
remained  on  his  knee  in  the  sunshine,  a  large  brown 
hand,  strong,  but  lonely. 

"  Oh,  dear  Unknown !  "  said  Nancy ;  and  she  bent  for- 
ward and  kissed  the  lonely  hand.  "  Do  not  let  us  throw 
our  blue  dream-rose  away  !  " 

"Very  well,"  he  said  —  "very  well,  dear  little  Miss 
Brown."  And  he  kissed  her  forehead  —  for  the  second 
time. 

That  evening  he  went  back  to  his  mines. 

XX 

THE  following  winter,  when  Nancy  had  been  in  Prague 
nearly  a  year,  the  Professor  said  : 

"Next  month  Anne-Marie  will  give  an  orchestral 
concert." 

"  Oh,  Herr  Professor !  "  gasped  Nancy. 


276  THE  DEVOURERS 

"  Was  giebt's  ?  "  asked  the  Professor. 

"  Was  giebt's  ?  "  asked  Anne-Marie. 

"  She  is  only  nine  years  old." 

"  Well  ?  "  said  the  Professor. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Anne-Marie. 

Who  can  describe  the  excitement  of  the  following 
days  ?  The  excitement  of  Bemolle  over  the  choice  of  a 
programme!  The  excitement  of  Fraulein  over  the 
choice  of  a  dress !  The  excitement  of  Nancy,  who  could 
close  no  eye  at  night,  who  pictured  Anne-Marie  breaking 
down  or  stopping  in  the  middle  of  a  piece,  or  beginning 
to  cry,  or  refusing  to  go  on  to  the  platform,  or  catching 
cold  the  day  before!  Everyone  was  febrile  and  over- 
wrought except  Anne-Marie  herself,  who  seemed  to 
trouble  not  at  all  about  it. 

She  was  to  play  the  Max  Bruch  Concerto  ?  Out ! 
And  the  Fantasia  Appassionata  ?  All  right.  And  the 
Paganini  variations  on  the  G  string  ?  Very  well.  And 
now  might  she  go  out  with  Schop  ?  For  Schopenhauer, 
long-bodied  and  ungainly,  had  come  with  them  to 
Europe,  and  was  now  friends  with  all  the  gay  dogs  of 
Prague. 

"  I  will  order  the  pink  dress,"  said  Fraulein. 

"  Oh  no  !     Let  it  be  white,"  said  Nancy. 

"  I  want  it  blue,"  said  Anne-Marie. 

So  blue  it  was. 

One  snowy  morning  Anne-Marie  went  to  her  first 
rehearsal  with  the  orchestra.  There  was  much  friendly 
laughter  among  the  strings  and  wind,  the  brass  and 
reeds,  when  the  small  child  entered  through  the  huge 
glass  doors  of  the  Rudolfinum,  followed  by  Bemolle 
carrying  the  violin,  Nancy  carrying  the  music,  Fraulein 
carrying  the  dog,  and  the  Professor  in  the  rear,  with  his 


THE   DEVOURERS  277 

hat  pulled  down  deeply  over  his  head,  and  a  large  unlit  cigar 
twisting  in  his  fingers.  Anne-Marie  was  introduced  to 
the  Bohemian  chef  d'orchestre,  and  was  hoisted  up  to  the 
platform  by  Fraulein  and  the  Professor.  Violins  and 
violas  tapped  applause  on  their  instruments. 

And  now  Jaroslav  Kalas  raps  his  desk  with  the  baton 
and  raises  his  arm.  Then  he  remembers  something. 
He  stops  and  bends  down  to  Anne-Marie.  Has  she  the 
A  ?  Yes,  thank  you.  And  the  little  girl  holds  the 
fiddle  to  her  ear  and  plucks  lightly  and  softly  at  the 
strings.  She  raises  it  to  her  shoulder,  and  stands  in 
position. 

Again  the  conductor  taps  and  raises  his  arms.  B-r-r-r-r-r 
roll  the  drums.  Re-do-si,  re-do-si,  re-e,  whisper  the 
clarinets.  A  pause.  Anne-Marie  lifts  her  right  arm 
slowly,  and  strikes  the  low  G  —  a  long  vibrating  note, 
like  the  note  of  a  'cello.  Then  she  glides  softly  up  the 
cadenza,  and  ends  on  the  long  pianissimo  high  D. 
Bemolle,  who  has  been  standing  up,  sits  down  suddenly. 
The  Professor,  who  has  been  sitting  down,  stands  up. 
Now  Anne-Marie  is  purling  along  the  second  cadenza. 
Fraulein,  beaming  in  her  lonely  stall  in  the  centre  of  the 
empty  hall,  nods  her  head  rapidly  and  continuously. 
Nancy  has  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  But  the 
little  girl,  with  her  cheek  on  the  fiddle,  plays  the  concerto 
and  sees  nothing.  Only  once  she  gives  a  little  start,  as 
the  brass  instruments  blare  out  suddenly  behind  her 
and  she  turns  slightly  towards  them  with  an  anxious  eye. 
Then  she  forgets  them ;  and  she  carries  the  music  along, 
winding  through  the  andante,  gliding  through  the 
adagio,  tearing  past  the  allegro,  leaping  into  the  wild, 
magnificent  finale. 

Perfect  silence.    The  orchestra   has  not   applauded. 


278  THE   DEVOURERS 

Kalas  folds  his  arms  and  turns  round  to  look  at  the 
Professor.  But  the  Professor  is  blowing  his  nose.  So 
Kal5s  steps  down  from  his  desk,  and,  taking  Anne- 
Marie's  hand,  lifts  it,  bow  and  all,  to  his  lips.  Then, 
stepping  back  briskly  to  the  desk,  he  raps  for  silence. 
"  Vieuxtemps'  Fantasie,"  he  says,  and  the  music-sheets 
are  fluttered  and  turned. 

All  Prague  sat  expectant  —  rustling  and  murmuring  and 
coughing  —  in  the  stalls  and  galleries  of  the  Eudolfinum, 
on  the  night  of  the  concert.  The  Bohemian  orchestra 
were  in  their  seats.  KalSs  stepped  up  to  his  desk,  and 
an  overture  was  played. 

A  short  pause.  Then,  in  the  midst  of  a  tense  silence, 
Anne-Marie  appeared,  threading  her  way  through  the 
orchestra,  with  her  violin  under  her  arm.  Now  she  stands 
in  her  place,  a  tiny  figure  in  a  short  blue  silk  frock,  with 
slim  black  legs  and  black  shoes,  and  her  fair  hair  tied 
on  one  side  with  a  blue  ribbon.  Unwondering  and 
calm,  Anne-Marie  confronted  her  first  audience,  gazing 
at  the  thousand  upturned  faces  with  gentle,  fearless 
eyes.  She  turned  her  quiet  gaze  upwards  to  the 
gallery,  where  row  on  row  of  people  were  leaning  forward 
to  see  her.  Then,  with  a  little  shake  of  her  head  to 
throw  back  her  fair  hair,  she  lifted  her  violin  to  her  ear, 
plucked  lightly,  and  listened,  with  her  head  on  one  side, 
to  the  murmured  reply  of  the  strings.  Kalas,  on  his 
tribune,  was  looking  at  her,  his  face  drawn  and  pale. 
She  nodded  to  him,  and  he  rapped  the  desk.  B-r-r-r-r-r-r 
rolled  the  drums. 

In  the  artists'  room  at  the  close  of  the  concert  people 
were  edging  and  pressing  and  pushing  to  get  in  and  catch 
a  glimpse  of  Anne-Marie.  The  Directors  and  the 


THE   DEVOURERS  279 

uniformed  men  pushed  the  crowd  out  again,  and  locked 
the  doors.  The  Professor,  who  had  listened  to  the 
concert  hidden  away  in  a  corner  of  the  gallery,  elbowed 
his  way  through  the  crush  and  entered  the  artists' 
room.  The  doors  were  quickly  locked  again  behind 
him. 

The  Professor  had  his  old  black  violin-case  in  his 
hands.  He  went  to  the  table,  and,  pushing  aside  a 
quantity  of  flowers  that  lay  on  it,  he  carefully  put  down 
his  violin-case.  It  looked  like  a  little  coffin  in  the  midst 
of  the  flowers.  Anne-Marie  was  having  her  coat  put 
on  by  Kalas,  and  a  scarf  tied  round  her  head  by 
Nancy,  who  was  .white  as  a  sheet.  The  Professor 
beckoned  to  her,  and  she  ran  to  him,  and  stood  beside 
him  at  the  table.  He  opened  his  violin-case  and  lifted 
out  the  magnificent  blond  instrument  that  he  had 
treasured  for  thirty  years.  He  turned  the  key  of  the 
E  string,  and  drew  the  string  off.  Then  he  drew  the 
A  string  off ;  then  the  D.  The  violin,  now  with  the  sin- 
gle silver  G  string  holding  up  its  bridge,  lay  in  the 
Professor's  hands  for  a  moment.  He  turned  solemnly 
to  the  little  girl. 

"  This  is  my  Guarnerius  del  Gesu.     I  give  it  to  you." 

"  Yes,"  said  Anne-Marie. 

"  You  will  always  play  the  Paganini  Variations  for  the 
G  string  on  this  violin.  Put  no  other  strings  on  it." 

"  No,"  said  Anne-Marie. 

The  Professor  replaced  the  violin  in  the  case,  and  shut 
it.  "I  have  taught  you  what  I  could,"  he  said 
solemnly.  "  Life  will  teach  you  the  rest." 

"  Yes,"  said  Anne-Marie,  and  took  the  violin-case  in 
her  arms.  The  Professor  looked  at  her  a  long  time. 
Then  he  said : 


280  THE  DEVOURERS 

"See  that  you  put  on  warm  gloves  to  go  out;  it 
is  snowing."  He  turned  away  quickly  and  left  the 
room. 

Nancy  put  her  arm  round  Anne-Marie. 

"  Oh,  darling,  you  forgot  to  thank  him ! "  she 
said. 

Anne-Marie  raised  her  eyes.  She  held  the  violin-case 
tightly  in  both  her  arms.  "How  can  one  thank  him? 
What  is  the  good  of  thanking  him  ?  "  she  said.  And 
Nancy  felt  that  she  was  right. 

"  Where  are  my  gloves  ? "  said  Anne-Marie.  "  He 
told  me  to  put  them  on.  And  where  is  Fraulein  ? " 

Fraulein  had  gone.  She  had  been  sent  home  in  a  cab 
after  the  second  piece,  for  she  had  not  a  strong  heart. 
Bemolle,  who  had  been  weeping  copiously  in  a  corner, 
stepped  forward  with  the  other  violin-case  in  his  hand. 

Now  they  were  ready.  Anne-Marie  was  carrying  the 
Guarnerius  and  the  flowers,  so  Nancy  could  not  take 
her  hand.  The  men  in  uniform  saluted  and  unlocked 
the  doors,  throwing  them  wide  open.  Then  Anne- 
Marie,  who  had  started  forward,  stopped.  Before  her 
the  huge  passage  was  lined  with  people,  crowded  and 
crushed  in  serried  ranks,  with  a  narrow  space  through 
the  middle.  At  the  end  of  the  passage  near  the  doors 
they  could  be  seen  pushing  and  surging,  like  a  troubled 
sea.  Anne-Marie  turned  to  her  mother. 

"Mother,  what  are  the  people  waiting  for?"  she 
asked. 

Nancy  smiled  with  quivering  lips.  "  Come,  darling," 
she  said. 

"  No,"  said  Anne-Marie ;  "  I  will  not  come.  I  am 
sure  they  are  waiting  to  see  something,  and  I  want  to 
wait,  too." 


THE   DEVOURERS  281 

As  the  crowd  caught  sight  of  her  and  rushed  forward, 
she  was  lifted  up  by  a  large  policeman,  who  carried 
her  on  his  shoulder  and  pushed  his  way  through  the 
tumult.  Anne-Marie  clutched  her  flowers  and  the 
violin-case,  which  knocked  against  the  policeman's 
head  with  every  step  he  took.  Nancy  followed  in  the 
crush,  laughing  and  sobbing,  feeling  hands  grasping  her 
hands,  hearing  voices  saying :  "  Gebenedeite  Mutter ! 
gliickliche  Mutter  !  "  And  she  could  only  say :  "  Thank 
you  !  Thank  you  !  Oh,  thank  you !  " 

Then  they  were  in  the  carriage.  The  door  was 
shut  with  a  bang.  Many  faces  surged  round  the 
windows. 

"Wave  your  hand,"  said  Nancy.  And  Anne-Marie 
waved  her  hand.  Cheers  and  shouts  frightened  the 
plunging  horses,  and  they  started  off  at  a  gallop  through 
the  nocturnal  streets.  Nancy  put  her  arm  round  Anne- 
Marie,  and  the  child's  head  lay  on  her  shoulder.  The 
Guarnerius  was  at  their  feet.  The  flowers  fell  from 
Anne-Marie's  hand  on  to  the  Professor's  old  black  case, 
that  was  like  a  shabby  little  coffin.  So  they  drove  away 
out  of  the  noise  and  the  lights  into  the  dark  and  silent 
streets,  holding  each  other  without  speaking.  Then 
Anne-Marie  said  softly  : 

"  Did  you  like  my  concert,  Liebstes  ?  " 

She  had  learned  the  tender  German  appellative  from 
Fraulein. 

"  Yes,"  whispered  Nancy. 

"Did  I  play  well,  Liebstes?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear  little  girl." 

A  long  pause.     "  Are  you  happy,  Liebstes  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  yes,  yes !     I  am  happy,"  said  Nancy. 


282  THE  DEVOUREKS 


XXI 

BEFOKE  a  week  had  passed  Nancy  had  discovered  how 
difficult  a  thing  it  was  to  be  the  mother  of  a  wonderchild, 
and  had  grown  thin  and  harassed  by  the  stream  of  visitors 
and  the  deluge  of  letters  that  overwhelmed  their  modest 
apartment  in  the  Vinohrady.  As  early  as  eight  o'clock 
in  the  morning  rival  violinists  walked  beneath  the 
windows  to  hear  if  Anne-Marie  was  practising,  and  how 
she  was  practising,  and  what  she  was  practising.  As  they 
did  not  hear  her,  they  concluded  that  she  practised  on 
a  mute  fiddle,  and  were  wrathful  and  disappointed. 
By  ten  o'clock  Lori,  the  smiling  maid,  had  introduced 
a  reporter  or  two,  an  impresario  or  two,  a  mother  or 
two  with  a  child  or  two,  and  none  of  them  seemed  to 
need  to  go  home  to  luncheon.  Questions  were  asked, 
and  advice  was  tendered.  "How  long  did  the  child 
practise  every  day  ?  "  "  Two  or  three  hours,"  said  Nancy. 
"Too  much,"  cried  the  mothers.  "Too  little,"  said 
the  impresarios.  "  At  what  age  did  she  begin  ?  "  "  When 
she  was  between  seven  and  eight."  "Too  young," 
said  the  mothers.  "  Too  old,"  said  the  impresarios. 
"  How  does  she  sleep  ?  "  asked  the  mothers.  "  What 
fees  do  you  expect  ?  "  asked  the  impresarios.  "  Why 
do  you  dress  her  in  blue  ?"  asked  the  mothers.  "Why 
not  in  white  or  in  black  velvet  ?  "  "  Why  don't  you 
cut  her  hair  quite  short  and  dress  her  in  boy's  clothes, 
and  say  she  is  five  years  old  ?  "  asked  the  impresarios. 
"  How  old  is  she  really  ? "  "  Does  her  father  beat 
her  ? "  There  seemed  to  be  no  restraint  to  the  kind 
and  the  quantity  of  questions  people  were  prepared 
to  ask. 


THE  DEVOURERS  283 

Meanwhile  the  fame  of  Anne-Marie  had  flashed  to 
Vienna,  and  she  was  invited  to  play  in  the  Musikverein 
Saal.  They  said  good-bye  to  the  Professor  with  tears 
of  gratitude,  and  left  —  taking  away  with  them  his  best 
violin  and  his  only  assistant,  for  Bemolle  was  to  go  with 
them  and  carry  the  violin,  and  run  the  messages,  and 
see  after  the  luggage,  and  attend  to  the  business 
arrangements.  This  last  duty  neither  Fraulein  nor 
Anne-Marie,  and  least  of  all  Nancy,  was  capable  of 
undertaking.  Bemolle  himself  was  nervous  about  it, 
but  the  Professor  (who  knew  as  much  about  business 
as  Anne-Marie)  had  coached  him. 

"  All  you  have  to  do  is  to  count  the  tickets  they  give 
you,  and  the  money  they  give  you.  And  there  must  be 
no  discrepancy.  Do  you  see  ?  " 

Yes,  Bemolle  saw.  And  so  that  was  what  he  did, 
everywhere  and  after  each  concert.  He  counted  the 
tickets,  and  he  counted  the  money  that  was  given  him 
very  carefully  and  lengthily,  while  the  smiling  manager 
stood  about  and  smoked,  or  went  out  and  refreshed 
himself ;  and  it  was  always  all  right,  and  there  was  never 
any  discrepancy  anywhere.  So  that  was  all  right. 

The  great  hall  of  the  Musikverein  was  filled  for  Anne- 
Marie's  first  concert.  It  was  crowded  and  packed  for 
her  second,  and  third,  and  fourth.  A  blond  Arch- 
duchess asked  her  to  play  to  her  children,  and  Anne- 
Marie's  lips  were  taught  to  frame  phrases  to  Royal 
Highnesses,  and  her  little  black  legs  were  trained  to 
obeisance  and  curtsey.  Then  Berlin  telegraphed  for 
the  Wonderchild,  and  the  Wonderchild  went  to  Berlin 
and  played  Bach  and  Beethoven  in  the  Saal  der  Phil- 
harmonic. Two  tall,  white-haired  gentlemen  came  into 
the  artists'  room  at  the  end  of  the  concert.  Solemnly 


284  THE   DEVOURERS 

they  kissed  the  child's  forehead,  and  invoked  God's 
blessing  upon  her.  When  they  had  left,  Nancy  saw 
Bemolle  running  after  them  and  shaking  their  hands. 
Nancy  said  :  "  What  are  you  doing,  Bemolle  ?  "  The  emo- 
tional Bemolle,  who,  since  Anne-Marie's  debut,  passed 
his  days  turning  pale  and  red,  and  always  seemed  on 
the  verge  of  tears,  exclaimed :  "  I  have  shaken  hands 
with  Max  Bruch  and  with  Joachim.  I  do  not  care  if 
now  I  die." 

And  always  at  the  end  of  the  concerts  crowds  waited 
at  the  doors  for  the  child  to  appear.  Anne-Marie 
passed  through  the  cheering  people  with  her  arms  full 
of  flowers,  nodding  to  the  right,  nodding  to  the  left, 
smiling  and  thanking  and  nodding  again,  with  Nancy 
nodding  and  smiling  and  thanking  close  behind  her. 
Sometimes  the  crowd  was  so  great  that  they  could  not 
pass,  and  Anne-Marie  had  to  be  lifted  up  and  carried 
to  the  carriage  buoyantly,  laughing  down  at  everybody 
and  waving  her  hands.  Then  there  was  a  rush  round 
the  carriage  door.  Nancy,  crushed  and  breathless, 
tearful  and  laughing,  managed  to  get  in  after  her,  the 
door  banged,  and  off  they  were,  Anne-Marie  still  nodding 
first  at  one  window  then  at  the  other,  and  rapping  her 
fingers  against  the  glass  in  farewell.  ...  At  last  the 
running,  cheering  crowds  were  left  behind,  and  she  would 
drop  her  head  with  a  little  sigh  of  happiness  against 
Nancy's  arm. 

"  Did  you  like  my  concert,  mother  dear  ?  Did  I  play 
well,  Liebstes  ?  " 

That  was  the  hour  of  joy  for  Nancy's  heart.  The 
concerts  themselves  turned  her  into  a  statue  of  terror, 
enveloped  her  with  fear  as  with  a  sheet  of  ice.  While 
Anne-Marie  played,  swaying  slightly  like  a  flower  in  a 


THE  DEVOURERS  285 

breeze,  her  spirit  carried  away  on  the  wing  of  her  own 
music,  Nancy  sat  in  the  audience  petrified  and  blenched, 
her  hands  tightly  interlaced,  her  heart  thumping  dull 
and  fast  in  her  throat  and  in  her  ears.  If  the  blue 
dream-light  of  Anne-Marie's  eyes  wandered  round  and 
found  her,  and  rested  on  her  face,  Nancy  would  try  to 
smile  —  a  strained,  panic-stricken  smile,  which  made 
Anne-Marie,  even  while  she  was  playing,  feel  inclined 
to  laugh.  Especially  if  she  were  at  that  moment  per- 
forming something  very  difficult,  spluttering  fireworks 
by  Bazzini,  or  a  romping,  breakneck  bravura  by 
Vieuxtemps,  she  would  look  fixedly  at  her  mother,  while 
an  impish  smile  crept  into  her  eyes,  and  her  fingers 
rushed  and  scampered  up  and  down  the  strings,  and  her 
bow  swept  and  skimmed  with  the  darting  flight  of  a 
swallow. 

Nancy,  watching  her  and  trying,  with  ashen  lips,  to 
respond  to  her  smile,  would  say  to  herself :  "  She  will 
stop  suddenly !  She  will  forget.  She  cannot  possibly 
remember  all  those  thousands  and  thousands  of  notes. 
She  will  let  her  bow  drop.  The  string  will  break. 
Something  will  happen !  And  if  my  heart  goes  on 
hammering  like  this,  I  shall  fall  down  and  die."  But 
nothing  happened,  and  she  did  not  die,  and  the  piece 
ended.  And  the  applause  crackled  and  crashed  around 
them.  And  the  concert  ended,  and  soon  they  were  alone 
together  in  the  flower-filled,  fragrant  penumbra  of  the 
moving  carriage. 

"  Are  you  happy,  mother  dear  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes !     I  am  so  happy,  my  own  little  girl  I " 

In  the  gentle  month  of  May  they  went  to  London. 
London!      Nancy's  father's  home!     London!     Close 


286  THE   DEVOURERS 

to  Hertfordshire,  where  Nancy  had  lived  the  first  eight 
years  of  her  life. 

On  board  the  Channel  steamer  Nancy,  with  beating 
heart,  full  of  tenderness  and  awe,  pointed  out  the  white 
cliffs  to  Anne-Marie.  "  That  is  England." 

"Yes,"  said  Anne-Marie,  "I  know." 

"  You  must  love  England,  darling,"  said  Nancy. 

"  We  shall  see,"  said  the  Wonderchild,  who  was  not 
prepared  to  love  by  command.  Fraulein  was  bubbling 
over  with  reminiscences.  It  was  in  Dover  that  Nancy's 
mother  had  come  to  meet  her  twenty-four  years  ago. 
They  had  had  tea  and  sponge-cakes  in  the  train.  They 
had  bought  an  umbrella  somewhere,  because  she  had  left 
hers  on  the  boat,  and  it  was  raining. 

So  it  was  to-day,  raining  drearily,  heavily  on  the  sad 
green  landscapes  as  the  train  ran  through  Kent  and 
towards  London. 

They  went  to  a  hotel,  close  to  the  hall  where  Anne- 
Marie  was  to  play.  And  all  the  way  driving  to  it 
Bemolle  wept,  with  emotion  at  being  in  London,  and 
with  emotion  at  not  being  in  Italy ;  for  in  a  little  village 
at  the  foot  of  the  Appenines,  his  old  mother  still  lived, 
following  him  with  anxious  letters  while  he  rushed  across 
Europe  carrying  the  violin  for  Anne-Marie. 

The  first  London  concert  was  to  be  the  week  after  their 
arrival.  The  manager,  pink-faced  and  blue-eyed,  came 
to  the  hotel  to  talk  about  the  programme. 

"England  is  not  Berlin.  Don't  make  it  too  heavy," 
he  said.  So  the  Beethoven  Concerto  was  taken  out,  and 
the  Vieuxtemps  Concerto  put  in  its  stead.  The  Chaconne 
was  taken  out,  and  the  Faust  Phantasie  put  in  its  stead. 
The  manager  said,  "  That's  right,"  and  went  out  to  play 
golf. 


THE  DEVOURERS  287 

The  London  audience  and  the  London  critics  came 
en  masse  to  hear  Anne-Marie.  The  London  audiences 
clapped  and  shouted.  The  London  critics  carped  and 
reproved.  How  sad  it  was,  said  they,  that  a  child  with 
such  a  marvellous  gift  should  waste  her  genius  on  music 
of  the  cheap  virtuoso  kind!  What  a  responsibility  on 
the  shoulders  of  parents  and  masters  who  withheld 
from  her  the  classic  glories  of  Beethoven  and  Bach ! 

The  manager,  coming  for  the  programme  of  the  second 
concert,  said :  "  Pile  it  on.  Give  it  to  them  heavy. 
It's  the  heavy  stuff  they  want."  Then  he  went  out  and 
played  golf. 

So  Anne-Marie  played  the  Beethoven  Concerto  and 
the  Beethoven  Romance,  the  Bach  Chaconne  and 
Fugue,  Prelude  and  Sarabande.  And  the  audience 
shouted  and  clapped. 

But  the  critics  carped  and  reproved.  How  can  a 
mere  child  understand  Beethoven  and  Bach  ?  How 
wrong  to  overweight  the  puerile  brain  with  the  giants 
of  classic  composition !  It  is  almost  a  sacrilege  to  hear 
a  little  girl  venturing  to  approach  the  Chaconne.  Let 
her  play  Handel  and  Mozart. 

So  in  the  third  concert  Anne-Marie  played  Handel 
and  Mozart,  and  the  axidience  shouted  and  clapped. 

But  the  critics  said  that,  though  she  played  the  easy, 
simple  music  very  nicely  for  her  age,  still,  in  a  London 
concert  hall  one  expected  to  hear  something  more 
puissant  and  authoritative.  And  why  did  she  give 
concerts  at  all  ?  Why  not  do  something  else  ?  Study 
composition,  for  instance  ? 

"That's  England  all  over,"  said  the  manager,  and 
went  out  and  played  golf. 

Nancy     was     bewildered     and     unhappy,      Bemolle 


288  THE   DEVOUKERS 

danced  about  in  helpless  Latin  rage,  and  Fraulein  sat 
down  and  wrote  a  long  letter  to  the  Times.  But  it  is 
uncertain  whether  the  Times  printed  it. 

Anne-Marie,  who  did  not  know  that  critics  existed, 
nor  care  what  critics  said,  was  happy  and  cheerful,  and 
bought  a  dog  in  Regent  Street,  to  replace  the  quarantined 
Schopenhauer.  He  was  a  young  and  thin  and  careless 
dog,  and  answered  to  the  name  of  Ribs.  Then 
Anne-Marie  decided  that  she  loved  England  very 
much. 

Many  people  called  at  the  hotel  to  ask  for  autographs, 
and  to  express  their  views.  One  elderly  musician  was 
very  stern  with  Anne-Marie,  and  sterner  still  with 
Nancy.  He  began  by  asking  Nancy  what  she  thought 
her  child  was  going  to  be  in  the  future. 

"I  do  not  know,"  said  Nancy.  "I  am  grateful  for 
what  she  is  now." 

"  Ah !  but  you  must  think  of  the  future.  You  want 
her  to  be  a  great  artist  —  " 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  do,"  said  Nancy.  "  She  is  a 
great  artist  now.  If  she  degenerates "  —  and  Nancy 
smiled  — "  into  merely  a  happy  woman,  she  will  have 
had  more  than  her  share  of  luck." 

"  Take  care !  The  prodigy  will  kill  the  artist ! " 
repeated  the  stern  man.  "  You  pluck  the  flower  and 
you  lose  the  fruit." 

Nancy  laughed.  "  It  is  as  if  you  said :  '  Beware  of 
being  a  rose-bud  lest  you  never  be  an  apple ! '  I  am 
content  that  she  should  bloom  unhindered,  and  be 
what  she  is.  Why  should  she  not  be  allowed  to  play 
Bach  like  an  angel  to-day,  lest  she  should  not  be  able 
to  play  him  like  Joachim  ten  years  hence  ?  " 

"  Yes,  why  not ! "  piped  up  Anne-Marie,  who  had  paid 


THE  DEVOURERS  289 

no  attention  to  the  conversation,  but  who  liked  to  say 
"  Why  not  ?  "  on  general  principles. 

The  stern  man  turned  to  her.  "Bach,  my  dear 
child "  he  began. 

Anne-Marie  gave  a  little  laugh.  "  Oh,  I  know ! " 
she  said  cheerfully. 

"  What  do  you  know  ?  "  asked  the  gentleman  severely. 

"You  are  going  to  say,  'Always  play  Bach;  nothing 
else  is  worthy,'"  said  Anne-Marie,  regretting  that  she 
had  joined  in  the  conversation. 

"  I  was  not  going  to  say  anything  of  the  kind,"  said 
the  stern  man. 

"Oh,  then  you  were  going  to  say  the  other  thing: 
1  Do  not  attempt  to  play  Bach  —  no  child  can  understand 
him.'  Professors  always  say  one  or  the  other  of  those 
two  things.  Much  stupid  things  are  said  about  music." 

"  It  is  so,"  said  the  gentleman  severely.  "  You 
cannot  possibly  understand  Bach." 

Anne-Marie  suddenly  grasped  him  by  the  sleeve. 

"  What  do  you  understand  in  Bach  ?  I  want  to  know. 
You  must  tell  me  what  you  understand.  Exactly  what  it 
is  that  you  understand  and  I  don't.  Bemolle ! "  she 
cried,  still  holding  the  visitor's  sleeve.  "Give  me  the 
violin ! " 

Bemolle  jumped  up  and  obeyed  with  beaming  face. 

"  Anne-Marie,  darling  !  "  expostulated  Nancy. 

But  Anne-Marie  had  the  violin  in  her  hand  and  wild- 
ness  in  her  eye. 

"  Stay  here,"  she  said  to  the  visitor,  relinquishing  his 
sleeve  with  unwilling  hand,  and  hastily  tuning  the  fiddle. 
"  Now  you  have  got  to  tell  me  what  you  understand  in 
Bach."  She  played  the  first  five  of  the  thirty-two 
variations  of  the  Chaconne ;  then  she  stopped. 


290  THE  DEVOUREKS 

"  What  does  Bach  mean  ?  What  have  you  under- 
stood ?  "  she  cried.  The  English  musician  leaned  back 
in  his  chair  and  smiled  with  benevolent  superiority. 

"  And  now  —  now  I  play  it  differently."  She  played 
it  again,  varying  the  lights  and  shades,  the  piani  and 
the  forti.  "  What  different  thing  have  you  under- 
stood ?  " 

"  And  now  —  now  I  play  it  like  Joachim.  So,  exactly 
so,  he  played  it  for  me  and  with  me  .  .  . 

"...  Now  what  have  you  understood  that  I  have  not  ? 
What  has  Bach  said  to  you,  and  not  to  me,  you  silly 
man?" 

Nancy  took  Anne-Marie's  hand.  "Hush,  Anne- 
Marie  !  For  shame  !  " 

"  I  will  not  hush ! "  cried  Anne-Marie,  with  flaming 
cheeks.  "  I  am  tired  of  hearing  them  always  say  the 
same  stupid  things." 

The  visitor,  smiling  acidly,  stood  up  to  go.  "  I  am 
afraid  too  much  music  is  not  good  for  a  little  girl's 
manners,"  he  said. 

"  Mother,"  said  Anne-Marie,  with  her  head  against 
her  mother's  breast.  "  Tell  him  to  wait.  I  want  to 
say  a  thing  that  I  can't.  Help  me." 

"What  is  it,  dear?" 

"  When  we  were  to  have  gone  to  a  country  that  you 
said  was  hot  and  pretty  —  and  dirty — where  was  that  ?" 

"  Spain  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes  !  You  said  something  about  the  little 
hotels  there  .  .  .  the  funny  little  hotels.  What  did  you 
say  about  them  ?  " 

Nancy  thought  a  moment.  Then  she  smiled  and 
remembered.  "  I  said :  '  You  can  only  find  in  them 
what  you  bring  with  you  yourself.' " 


THE   DEVOUKERS  291 

"  Yes,  yes  ! "  cried  Anne-Marie,  raising  her  excited 
eyes.  "  Now  say  that  about  music." 

And  Nancy  said  it.  "You  will  only  find  in  music 
what  you  bring  to  it  from  your  own  soul." 

"Yes,"  said  Anne-Marie,  turning  to  the  visitor; 
"  how  can  you  know  what  I  bring  ?  How  can  you 
know  that  what  you  bring  is  beautifuller  or  gooder? 
How  can  you  know  that  Bach  meant  what  you  think 
and  not  what  I  think  ?  " 

"Don't  get  excited,  you  funny  little  girl,"  said  the 
visitor ;  and  he  took  his  leave  with  dignity. 

But  Anne-Marie  was  excited,  and  did  not  sleep  all 
night. 

XXII 

"  ANNE-MARIE,  the  King  wants  to  hear  you  play ! " 

"  The  King  ?    The  real  King  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Not  a  fairy-tale  king  ?  " 

"No." 

"  The  King  who  was  ill  when  I  had  a  birthday-cake 
long  ago  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  And  that  I  made  get  well  again  ?  " 

"  Oh,  did  you,  dear  ?  "  laughed  Nancy.  "  I  did  not 
know  that." 

"  I  did  it,"  said  Anne-Marie,  with  deep  and  serious 
mien.  "I  made  him  get  well.  Do  you  remember  the 
seven  candles  round  my  cake  ?  " 

"  I  heard  of  them.  You  were  seven  when  you  were 
at  the  Gartenhaus;  and  I  was  away  from  you."  And 
Nancy  sighed. 


292  THE   DEVOURERS 

"  And  you  know  about  the  birthday  wishes  ?  "  asked 
the  eager  Anne-Marie.  "  The  Poetry  says : 

"The  heart  must  be  pure, 
The  Wish  must  be  sure, 
The  blow  must  be  one  — 
The  magic  is  done  !  " 

"  What  terrible  lines ! "  said  Nancy. 

"Fraulein  did  them,  from  the  German,"  said  Anne- 
Marie. 

"What  is  the  blow?" 

"The  blowing-out  of  the  candles.  You  may  only 
blow  once.  And  '  the  Wish  must  be  sure.'  You  must 
not  change  about,  and  regret,  and  wish  you  hadn't. 
Fraulein  told  me  it  would  be  safest  to  make  a  list  of  all 
my  wishes  beforehand.  So  I  made  a  list  days  and  days 
before  my  birthday.  They  were  to  be  seven  things  — 
one  for  each  candle.  There  was  a  white  pony,  and  a 
kennel  for  Schopenhauer,  and  a  steamer  to  go  and  fetch 
you  home  in,  and  a  lovely  dress  for  Fraulein,  and  a  gold 
watch  for  you,  and  something  else  for  Elisabeth,  and 
another  dog  for  me,  and  to  go  to  the  theatre  every  day, 
and—" 

"  There  seem  to  be  more  than  seven  things  already," 
said  Nancy. 

"Well,  they  were  most  beautiful.  Especially  the 
pony  and  the  steamer  .  .  .  And  then  you  wrote  about 
the  King." 

"I  remember,"  said  Nancy. 

"  You  said  he  was  ill,  and  that  he  was  your  papa's 
King,  and  that  he  was  good  and  forgave  everybody : 
whole  countries-full  of  bad  people  !  And  you  wrote  that 
I  was  to  say  a  prayer,  and  ask  God  to  make  him  well." 

"I  remember." 


THE   DEVOUKERS  293 

"  Well,  I  didn't,  I  said  to  God  :  <  Wait  a  minute  ! ' 
because  next  day  was  my  birthday,  and  I  had  the  cake 
with  the  seven  Wishes.  I  thought  first  I  would  just 
give  up  the  kennel,  and  wish  once  for  the  King  to  get 
well.  So  I  did  it,  and  blew  out  one  candle ;  then  I 
gave  up  the  present  for  Elisabeth,  and  wished  for  the 
King  again.  Then  I  thought  I  could  do  without  the 
dress  for  Fraulein.  And  without  the  theatre.  .  .  . 
And  then  I  let  the  steamer  and  the  pony  go  too.  And 
I  blew  out  all  seven  candles  for  the  King ! "  Anne- 
Marie  folded  her  hands  in  her  lap.  "So  that's  how 
I  made  him  get  well." 

"  How  nice,"  said  Nancy. 

"  And  now  I  am  going  to  see  him,  and  to  play  to  him," 
said  Anne-Marie  dreamily.  "It  is  very  strange." 
She  raised  her  simple  eyes  to  her  mother.  "Do  you 
think  I  ought  to  tell  him  about  my  having  saved  him  ?  " 

"  I  think  not,"  said  Nancy.  "  It  is  much  nicer  to 
have  saved  him  without  his  knowing  it." 

So  Anne-Marie  did  not  tell  him. 

.  .  .  But  he  knew.  "  I  know  that  he  knew ! "  sobbed 
Anne-Marie  in  the  evening  of  the  great  day,  trembling 
with  emotion  in  her  mother's  arms.  "I  saw  it  in  the 
kindness  of  his  eyes.  And  mother!  mother!  I  think 
that  was  why  he  kissed  me." 

XXIII 

THE  Piper  piped  tunes  into  Anne-Marie's  ear,  tunes 
that  she  had  to  hum,  and  to  sing,  and  to  play;  tunes 
that  enraptured  her  when  she  created  them,  and  hurt 
her  when  she  forgot  them.  So  Bemolle  had  to  write 
them  down.  Everything  she  heard  wandered  off  into 


294  THE   DEVOUKERS 

melodies,  melted  into  harmonies,  divided  itself  up  into 
rhythms.  Mother  Goose  rhymes  and  Struwelpeter 
were  put  to  music,  and  all  the  favourites  in  Andersen's 
Marchen  —  the  Princess  and  the  Mermaid,  the  Swine- 
herd and  the  Goblins  —  corresponded  to  some  special 
bars  of  music  in  Anne-Marie's  mind.  "  She  has  the 
sense  of  the  Leitmotiv,"  said  Bemolle,  with  awestruck 
eyes  and  oracular  forefinger^ 

It  had  been  arranged  that  Bemolle  should  have  his 
mornings  to  himself  for  his  own  compositions.  He 
had,  two  years  before,  by  dint  of  much  scraping,  paid 
five  hundred  francs  to  secure  a  good  libretto  for  his  much- 
dreamed-of  opera,  of  which  he  had  already  composed 
the  principal  themes  when  he  first  went  with  the  Pro- 
fessor to  play  for  Anne-Marie;  he  was  also  half-way 
through  a  tone- poem  on  Edgar  Allan  Poe's  "Eldorado." 
He  played  it  occasionally  to  Anne-Marie ;  frequently 
to  Nancy: 

"  Gaily  bedight,  a  gallant  Knight, 
In  sunshine  and  in  shadow " 

"  Do  you  hear  ? "  he  would  say,  playing  with  much 
pedal,  while  his  rough  black  head  bounced  and  dipped. 
"Do  you  hear  the  canter  and  gallop  and  thump?  It  is 
the  Horse,  and  the  Heart,  and  the  Hope  of  the  Knight ! " 

Yes ;  Nancy  could  hear  the  Horse,  and  the  Heart, 
and  the  Hope  quite  clearly. 

"Now!"  Bemolle' s  curly  black  mat  would  swoop 
over  the  keys  and  stay  there  quite  near  to  his  fingers, 
"  Now  —  the  Hag  appears !  Do  you  hear  the  Hag 
murmur  and  mumble?  This  is  the  Hag  murmuring 
and  mumbling." 

"I  should  make  her  mumble  in  D  flat,"  said  Anne- 
Marie  airily.  And  then  she  trotted  out  of  the  room, 


THE   DEVOURERS  295 

leaving  in  Bemolle's  heart  a  vague  sense  of  dissatisfac- 
tion with  his  Hag,  because  she  was  mumbling  in  A 
natural. 

Soon,  as  there  was  much  to  do,  programmes  to  pre- 
pare, letters  to  answer,  engagements  to  accept,  tours  to 
refuse,  and  they  were  all  four  rather  unbusinesslike  and 
confusionary,  Bemolle  had  to  put  aside  his  opera  and 
his  tone-poem,  and  dedicate  himself  exclusively  to  the 
business  arrangements  of  the  party. 

They  frequently  got  confused  in  their  dates.  "  The 
Costanzi  in  Rome  has  telegraphed,  asking  for  three 
concerts  in  February,  and  I  have  accepted ! "  cried 
Bemolle  triumphantly,  when  Nancy  and  Anne-Marie 
returned  from  one  of  the  dreaded  and  inevitable  after- 
noon receptions  given  in  their  honour. 

"  I  thought  we  had  accepted  Stockholm  for  February," 
said  Nancy,  with  troubled  brow. 

"  So  we  had  !  "  exclaimed  Bemolle.  "  Oh  dear ! 
Now  we  must  cancel  it." 

"  Oh,  don't  cancel  Rome !  Cancel  Stockholm,"  said 
Nancy. 

And  so  they  cancelled  Stockholm  with  great  difficulty, 
promising  Stockholm  a  date  in  March,  immediately 
after  Rome,  and  immediately  before  Berlin,  where 
Anne-Marie  was  to  play  for  the  Kaiserfest  the  Max 
Bruch  Concerto,  accompanied  by  the  great  composer 
himself. 

A  week  later,  Nancy,  looking  at  Bemolle's  little  book 
of  dates  and  engagements,  said  :  "  How  can  we  get  from 
Rome  to  Stockholm,  and  from  Stockholm  to  Berlin  in 
six  days,  and  give  three  concerts  in  between  ?  " 

"  We  cannot  do  so,"  said  Fraulein.  "  From  Berlin 
to  Warnemunde  —  " 


296  THE  DEVOURERS 

"Oh,  never  mind  details,  Fraulein,"  sighed  Nancy. 
"  It  cannot  be  done." 

"  We  must  cancel  Rome,"  said  Fraulein. 

"  No,  you  can't  do  that,"  said  Bemolle. 

"  Well,  then,  we  must  cancel  Berlin,"  said  Nancy. 

"Impossible! " 

"  Then  I  suppose  we  must  cancel  Stockholm  again." 

So  they  cancelled  Stockholm  again,  by  telegrams 
that  cost  one  hundred  and  fifty  francs,  and  by  paying 
damages  to  the  extent  of  two  thousand  francs,  and 
by  swallowing  and  ignoring  threats  of  lawsuits  and 
acrimonious  letters. 

"I  think  we  ought  to  have  an  impresario,"  said 
Nancy.  "We  do  not  seem  to  manage  our  business 
affairs  well." 

So  they  decided  to  have  an  impresario.  After 
wavering  for  a  long  time  between  a  little  black  man 
from  Rome,  who  had  followed  them  all  over  the  Continent, 
and  a  great  Paris  impresario  who  had  only  telegraphed 
twice,  they  decided  on  a  nice-looking  man  in  Vienna, 
who  had  seemed  honest,  and  had  promised  them  many 
things.  He  was  telegraphed  for  —  nobody  ever  wrote 
letters  if  it  could  be  helped  ;  indeed,  the  correspondence 
which  flowed  in  on  them  from  all  parts  of  the  world 
was  only  half  read  and  a  quarter  answered.  The 
impresario  from  Vienna  replied,  asking  for  two  hundred 
kronen  for  travelling  expenses.  These  were  sent  to 
him  by  telegraph.  And  then  he  did  not  come.  "We 
must  not  put  up  with  it,"  said  Fraulein.  So  they  did 
not  put  up  with  it.  They  went  to  a  solicitor,  who  asked 
for  the  correspondence  and  ten  pounds  for  preliminary 
expenses,  which  were  given  to  him.  And  that  was  all  — 
except  that  about  a  year  afterwards,  when  they  had 


THE   DEVOURERS  297 

forgotten  all  about  it,  a  bill  from  the  solicitor  for  four 
pounds  two  shillings  followed  them  across  Europe,  and 
finally  reached  them  in  St.  Petersburg.  And  they  paid  it. 

But  meanwhile  they  decided  upon  the  Paris  im- 
presario. He  was  a  great  man,  and  had  "  launched  " 
everybody  who  was  anybody  in  the  artistic  world.  He 
needed  no  travelling  expenses.  He  arrived,  gorgeous 
of  waistcoat,  resplendent  of  hat.  He  said  he  had 
already  fixed  up  two  Colonne  concerts  in  Paris  for 
Anne-Marie.  He  was  none  of  your  slow,  sleepy, 
impresarios.  Here  was  a  contract  in  duplicate  ready 
for  them  to  sign.  His  bright  brown  eye  wandered 
critically  over  Bemolle.  Then  he  took  Fraulein  in  at 
a  glance,  and  looking  at  Nancy's  helpless  and  bewildered 
face  he  seemed  to  be  satisfied  with  Anne-Marie's 
surroundings.  To  Anne-Marie  herself  he  paid  no  atten- 
tion. He  had  heard  her  play  twice.  That  was  enough. 
Anne-Marie,  as  Anne-Marie,  interested  him  not  at  all. 
Anne-Marie  as  artist  still  less.  Anne-Marie  was  a  musical- 
box,  ten  years  old,  with  yellow  hair,  whom  he  had  wanted 
to  get  hold  of  for  the  last  six  months. 

r  I     Here  was  the  contract.   No  father  ?  Well,  Nancy  could 
.  sign  it  in  the  father's  stead. 

itf  Nancy,  Bemolle,  and  Fraulein  read  the  contract  over 
very  carefully,  while  the  impresario  drank  claret  and 
smoked  cigarettes.  He  had  a  way  of  sniffing  the  air  up 
through  his  nostrils,  and  of  swallowing  with  his  lips 
turned  up  at  the  corners  in  an  expectant,  self-satisfied 
manner  that  distracted  Nancy,  and  interfered  with  her 
understanding  of  the  contract. 

There  were  fourteen  clauses.  "It  seems  all  right," 
said  Nancy  softly  to  Bemolle.  Bemolle  frowned  a 
businesslike  frown,  and  Fraulein  said,  "  Sprechen  wir 


298  THE   DEVOUKEKS 

Deutsch,"  which  they  did,  to  the  placid  amusement  of 
the  Paris  impresario,  who  was  born  in  Klagenfurt. 

After  much  reading  and  considering,  Bemolle  turned 
with  his  business  frown  to  the  impresario.  "  You  say 
forty  per  cent  to  the  artist  ?  " 

The  impresario  sniffed  and  swallowed.  "  That's  right," 
he  said.  "  I  have  the  risks  and  the  expenses." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Nancy. 

Bemolle  touched  her  arm  lightly  and  warningly. 

"  Forty  per  cent,  of  the  gross  receipts  ?  "  asked  Bemolle 
suspiciously. 

"Of  the  net  receipts,"  said  the  impresario. 

"  Ah,  that  is  better ! "  said  the  unenlightened  Fraulein. 
And  Bemolle  put  out  his  foot  gently  and  kicked  her. 

"  Now,  what  is  this  clause  about  three  years  ?  " 

"That's  right,"  said  the  impresario.  "You  do  not 
think  I  am  to  have  all  the  trouble  of  launching  her  for 
you  take  her  away  after  six  months,  while  I  sit  sucking 
my  fingers." 

"  Gemeiner  Kerl ! "  said  Fraulein  to  Nancy. 

But  Nancy  said :  "  She  is  already  launched." 

"  Is  she  ?  "  said  the  impresario.  "  I  don't  think  so." 
And  he  sniffed  and  swallowed.  "  She  must  make  about 
two  million  francs  in  the  next  two  years.  Otherwise  she 
may  as  well  quit." 

"  Zwei  Millionen ! "  gasped  Fraulein,  under  her  breath. 

Bemolle  kicked  her  again.  "And  what  does  this 
mean?  Clause  eight.  'The  party  of  the  second  part 
agrees  to  give  a  minimum  of  one  hundred  and  forty  con- 
certs per  year  for  three  years '  ?  " 

"That  is  a  matter  of  form,"  said  the  impresario. 
"We  put  that  into  all  contracts  lest  we  should  feel 
inclined  to  sit  about  with  our  hands  in  our  pockets  doing 


THE   DEVOURERS  299 

nothing.  Now,  if  you  don't  like  it,  you  can  leave  it. 
I've  not  come  over  for  this.  I  have  a  contract  with 
the  biggest  star  singer  in  Europe  to  sign  here  to-day. 
That  is  what  I  came  for.  Look  at  it."  And  he  pulled 
out  a  contract  made  in  the  name  of  a  world-famed 
tenor,  and  dotted  over  with  tens  of  hundreds  of  pounds 
as  a  field  is  with  daisies. 

Fraulein  was  much  impressed.  "  Better  take  him 
quick,"  she  said  in  German.  "He  might  go."  So 
they  took  him  quick,  and  signed  the  contract.  And 
Bemolle  was  careful  to  have  it  stamped. 

"  Und  nun  ist  Alles  in  Ordnung,"  said  the  "  gemeiner 
Kerl,"  grinning  at  Fraulein.  And  then  he  sniffed  and 
swallowed. 

They  soon  found  out  what  Clause  eight  meant.  The 
party  of  the  second  part  was  bound  to  give  a  minimum 
of  one  hundred  and  forty  concerts  a  year  —  and  the  party 
of  the  second  part  was  Anne-Marie.  Anne-Marie  was 
certainly  not  to  be  allowed  to  sit  about  with  her  hands 
in  her  pockets.  In  sixteen  days  she  gave  twelve  concerts 
with  eleven  journeys  between.  She  went  from  town  to 
town,  from  platform  to  platform,  looking  like  a  little 
dazed  seraph  playing  in  its  dreams.  Fraulein  broke 
down  on  the  sixth  journey,  and  was  left  behind,  half-way 
between  Cologne  and  Mainz.  Bemolle  said  nothing. 
He  could  only  look  at  Anne-Marie  dozing  in  the  train, 
and  great  tears  would  gather  in  his  round  black  eyes, 
linger  and  roll  down,  losing  themselves  in  his  dark 
moustache,  that  drooped  over  his  mouth  like  a  seal's. 
When  the  impresario  travelled  with  them,  smoking 
cigarettes  in  their  faces,  and  going  to  sleep  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  and  his  long  legs  stretched  across 
the  compartment,  there  was  murder  —  black  and  scarlet 


300  THE  DEVOURERS 

murder  —  in  Bemolle's  eyes,  and  his  gaze  would  wander 
from  the  impresario's  flowered  waistcoat  to  his  blond, 
pointed  beard,  searching  for  a  place. 

During  the  concerts  the  impresario  was  everywhere 
to  be  seen,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  legs  wide 
apart.  Between  the  pieces  he  sat  in  the  artists'  room 
and  talked  to  everyone  who  came  in  to  see  Anne-Marie, 
scenting  out  the  journalists  with  the  flair  of  a  dog. 
Nancy  could  hear  him  inventing  startling  anecdotes 
about  Anne-Marie.  He  talked  to  the  enthusiastic 
musicians  and  the  tearful  ladies  that  came  to  con- 
gratulate, and  always  could  Nancy  hear  him  recounting 
the  same  untrue  and  unlikely  anecdotes.  Yes,  this 
child  he  had  discovered  playing  the  piano  when  she  was 
three  years  old.  When  she  was  five  she  had,  with  the 
aid  of  her  little  brother,  built  a  violin  out  of  a  soap-box. 
She  had  been  kidnapped  by  some  Nihilists  in  Russia, 
and  had  been  kept  by  them  three  weeks  in  a  kind  of 
vault,  where  she  had  to  play  to  them  for  hours  when  they 
asked  her  to.  She  had  jewels  and  decorations  worth  ten 
thousands  pounds.  She  had  three  Strads ;  one  of  them 
had  belonged  to  Wagner  and  the  other  to  the  Tsar. 

At  the  end  of  the  concerts  the  impresario  got  into  the 
carriage  with  them.  The  impresario  bore  Anne-Marie 
through  the  clapping  crowds.  The  impresario  carried 
her  flowers  and  her  violin,  and  waved  his  hand  out  of 
the  window  to  the  people  when  Anne-Marie  was  too 
tired  to  do  so.  Anne-Marie  sat  in  her  corner  of  the 
carriage  and  fell  asleep.  Nancy  bit  her  lips  and  tried 
not  to  cry.  And  Bemolle  sat  outside  on  the  box,  think- 
ing evil  Italian  thoughts,  and  murmuring  old  Italian 
curses  that  had  never  been  known  to  fail. 

This  lasted  just  a  fortnight.     On  the  fifteenth  day  Anne- 


THE  DEVOUKERS  301 

Marie  said :  "  I  don't  want  to  see  that  man  any  more. 
And  I  want  to  have  a  picnic  in  the  grass,"  she  added, 
"  with  things  to  eat  in  parcels,  and  milk  in  a  bottle." 

"  Very  well,  dear,"  said  Nancy.  "  You  shall  have  it." 
And  they  had  it.  And  it  was  very  nice. 

When  the  impresario  came  that  evening  Anne-Marie 
was  not  to  be  seen.  She  was  in  bed  and  asleep,  rosy 
and  worn  out  by  her  long  day  in  the  open  air. 

"  Are  you  ready  ?  "  said  the  impresario,  looking  round. 
Nancy  said:  "Anne-Marie  cannot  play  to-night. 
She  is  tired.  I  did  not  know  where  to  find  you,  or  I 
should  have  let  you  know  before." 

"  Oh,  indeed !  "  said  the  impresario.  And  he  sniffed 
and  swallowed. 

"  And  really,"  said  Nancy.  "  I  have  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  this  won't  do.  Anne-Marie  must  play 
only  when  she  wants  to.  One  or  two  concerts  in  a 
month,  if  she  feels  like  it,  and  not  more.  She  shall  not 
play  because  she  must,  but  because  she  loves  to." 

"  Gelungen ! "  said  the  impresario,  sitting  down  and 
taking  out  his  cigarette  case. 

"  So  I  think  you  had  better  just  pay  for  the  concerts 
she  has  given,  and  let  us  go." 

The  impresario  laughed  long  and  loud.  His  shoulders 
shook  with  amusement. 

"  Na,  gelungen  !  "  he  said  again,  leaving  off  laughing 
to  light  his  cigarette,  and  stretching  out  his  long  legs. 
"How  much  did  you  say  I  was  to  pay?"  And  he 
shook  with  laughter  again. 

"  Well,  our  share,  I  suppose,"  said  Nancy  timidly. 

"That's  right,"  said  the  impresario,  and  he  stopped 
laughing  suddenly,  and  looked  at  his  watch.  "Now 
hurry  up  and  come  along.  It  is  time  to  start." 


302  THE   DEVOURERS 

"  Anne-Marie  is  asleep,"  said  Nancy. 

"  Then  wake  her,"  said  the  impresario. 

Nancy  felt  herself  turning  pale. 

"  Get  on,"  said  the  impresario ;  "  it  won't  kill  her  to 
play  to-night.  And  the  concert-hall  is  sold  out." 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  Nancy;  "but  Anne-Marie  never 
plays  when  she  is  tired." 

"  That  is  foolish,  my  dear  woman,"  said  the  impresario, 
getting  up.  "I  shall  be  obliged  to  wake  her  myself 
if  you  don't."  And  he  took  a  step  towards  the  closed 
door  which  led  into  the  room  where  Anne-Marie  was 
sleeping. 

Now  Anne-Marie's  sleep  was  a  sacred  thing.  A  thing 
watched  over  and  hallowed,  approached  on  tip  of  toe, 
spoken  of  with  finger  on  lip  and  bated  breath.  If 
Anne-Marie  slept  perfect  silence  was  kept,  and  the  world 
must  stop.  If  Bemolle  chanced  to  open  a  door  or  creak 
a  careless  shoe,  he  was  frowned  at  with  horrified  brows. 
Anne-Marie's  sleep  was  a  thing  inviolate  and  sacrosanct. 

Bemolle  had  been  standing  near  the  window  looking 
out  into  the  darkness  while  the  impresario  spoke  to 
Nancy ;  but  with  the  first  step  in  the  direction  of  the 
closed  door  Bemolle  darted  forward  with  a  growl  like 
that  of  a  angry  dog.  Bemolle  was  short  and  stout, 
but  his  long  accumulated  anger  and  hatred  stood  him 
in  lieu  of  height  and  muscles.  He  jumped  at  the 
impresario,  he  pulled  his  beard,  he  scratched  his  face, 
he  pummelled  him  in  the  chest,  and  with  short,  excited 
legs  he  kicked  him.  When  the  big  man  recovered  from 
the  amazement  caused  by  this  unexpected  onslaught, 
he  lifted  Bemolle  off  his  legs  and  sat  him  on  the  floor. 
The  he  took  his  hat  and  his  umbrella  and  walked  out 
of  the  room,  and  out  of  the  hotel. 


THE   DEVOURERS  ,303 

"  Has  he  gone  ? "  said  Bemolle,  after  a  while,  sitting 
up,  with  papery  cheeks  and  a  reddened  eye. 

"  Yes,  he  has  gone,"  said  Nancy.  "  Poor  Bemolle ! 
Did  he  hurt  you  ?  " 

Bemolle  did  not  rise  from  the  floor.  He  shook  his 
head,  and  muttered  hoarsely  : 

"  He  wanted  to  wake  Anne-Marie.  He  actually 
wanted  to  wake  Anne-Marie  !  " 

...  It  cost  them  twenty-five  thousand  francs  to  annul 
the  contract,  and  five  hundred  francs  in  legal  expenses. 
But  they  considered  that  it  was  cheap  for  the  joy  of 
having  got  rid  of  the  impresario. 

They  had  picnics  and  played  about  until  Fraulein 
was  well  enough  to  join  them  again,  and  then  they  went 
to  Rome,  where  they  arrived  with  a  fortnight  to  spare 
before  the  orchestral  concerts  at  the  Teatro  Costanzi. 

Thither  from  Milan  came  Aunt  Carlotta,  bent  and 
wrinkled,  and  Zio  Giacomo,  trembling  and  slow;  and 
Adele  and  Nino  and  Carlo  and  Clarissa  in  a  noisy  and 
affectionate  group.  Many  tender  tears  were  shed  in 
memory  of  Valeria,  who  had  not  lived  to  see  her  little 
grandchild's  fame.  "But  she  saw  your  glory,  Nancy," 
said  Nino. 

They  lived  again  in  memory  Nancy's  visit  to  the 
Queen  with  her  little  volume  of  poems,  as  they  all  went 
one  sunshiny  afternoon  up  the  hill  of  the  Quirinal  and 
past  the  Palace.  Nino,  whose  hair  was  quite  grey, 
and  who,  according  to  Aunt  Carlotta,  was  rather  difficult 
to  please  and  easy  to  irritate,  walked  in  front  of  them, 
and  Anne-Marie  trotted  beside  him,  holding  his  hand. 
He  told  her  interesting  tales  about  a  pink  pinafore  her 
mother  had  worn  when  she  was  eight  years  old,  and  what 
Fraulein  looked  like  when  she  was  apple-cheeked  and 


304  THE  DEVOURERS 

twenty-five.  Fraulein,  who  really  did  not  show  the 
twenty  years'  difference  very  much,  walked  beside  them, 
deeply  moved  by  these  reminiscences;  and  Bemolle, 
who  was  to  go  and  visit  his  lonely  old  mother  as 
soon  as  the  Costanzi  concerts  were  over,  walked  behind 
them  all,  tearful  on  general  principles. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Nino  to  Nancy,  "  I  saw  the  dear 
old  Grey  House  again.  I  went  to  England  on  Carlo's 
affairs  two  months  ago.  I  ran  down  to  Hertfordshire 
and  looked  at  it.  It  seemed  to  be  empty." 

"Oh,"  said  Fraulein,  "what  a  beautiful  place  it 
was !  Don't  you  remember  it,  Nancy  ?  " 

"I  remember  the  garden,"  said  Nancy,  with  vague 
eyes,  "  and  the  swing " 

"  What  swing  ?  "  said  Anne-Marie,  taking  an  interest. 

Nancy  told  her  about  the  swing  in  the  orchard  of  that 
far-away  home,  where  she  had  stood  swinging  and  singing 
in  the  placid  English  sunshine  when  she  was  a  little  girl. 

.  .  .  After  a  very  few  days  the  well-remembered 
envelope  with  the  golden  arms  of  the  Royal  House  was 
put  into  Anne-Marie's  small  hands.  On  the  following 
evening,  Adele,  Carlotta,  and  Clarissa  were  in  a  flutter 
preparing  Nancy  and  Anne-Marie  for  their  audience  at 
the  Quirinal.  Bemolle  was  fevered  with  excitement, 
for  he  was  to  play  Anne-Marie's  accompaniments 
on  the  piano.  He  walked,  pale  and  happy,  carrying  the 
violin  and  the  music,  behind  Nancy  and  Anne-Marie,  as 
they  passed,  with  right  hands  bared,  through  the  red 
room,  and  the  yellow  room,  and  the  blue  room,  and  at 
last  into  the  white  and  gold  room  where  the  King  and  the 
Queen  and  many  officers  and  ladies  were  waiting  for 
them.  The  Queen  was  not  the  same  Queen  whom 
Nancy  had  known,  and  whose  name  —  the  name  of  a 


THE   DEVOURERS  305 

flower  —  was  written  on  the  first  page  of  her  old  diary. 
But  the  little  boy  whose  picture,  framed  in  diamonds, 
Nancy  had  received  on  her  wedding-day,  was  King. 

The  Queen  embraced  Anne-Marie  many  times,  and 
laughed  when  Anne-Marie  talked,  and  wept  when  Anne- 
Marie  played.  Anne-Marie  gazed  at  the  tall,  dark- 
eyed  Queen  with  adoration,  sparing  a  glance  or  two 
for  a  gorgeous  man  in  scarlet  tunic,  with  many  decora- 
tions, whom  she  took  to  be  the  King. 

As  the  Adagio  of  Mendelssohn's  concerto  ended,  a 
stern-faced  man  in  plain  evening-dress,  sitting  slightly 
apart  from  the  others,  said:  "I  do  not  care  much  for 
music,  but  this  music  I  love."  The  Queen  turned  to 
him  with  a  smile  on  her  beautiful  face — a  smile  that 
startled  Anne-Marie.  Anne-Marie  followed  the  track  of 
that  shining  smile,  and  her  eyes  fastened  on  the  face  of 
the  stern  man.  Where  had  she  seen  that  face  before  ? 
Why  was  it  so  dear  and  familiar?  Why  did  it  make 
her  think  of  New  York,  and  her  mother  weeping  over 
letters  from  home.  Stamps!  She  had  seen  it  on 
stamps !  He  was  the  King  of  Italy !  How  could  she 
have  looked  at  that  silly,  yellow-haired  man  in  the 
red  tunic !  Anne-Marie's  small  loyal  heart  prostrated 
itself  in  penitence  before  him  who  did  not  care  for  music. 
And  as  she  played,  he  smiled  back  at  her  with  piercing, 
friendly  eyes. 

Bemolle,  who  had  made  his  deep  obeisance  on  entering 
the  door,  and  had  then  stopped  beside  the  piano,  bent 
under  the  awful  joy  of  the  majestic  presence,  never 
straightened  himself  out  again,  but  sat  down  and  stood 
up  when  spoken  to,  in  a  tense  curvilinear  posture  that 
was  painful  to  look  upon.  He  also  played  many  wrong 
notes  in  the  accompaniments,  and  could  feel  the  anger  of 


306  THE   DEVOURERS 

Anne-Marie  flashing  upon  him,  even  though  her  small 
blue  back  was  turned.  Nancy  sat  beside  the  Queen, 
smiling  through  tear-lit  eyes,  replying  to  the  many 
intimate  and  kindly  questions  the  beautiful  lips  asked. 
The  Queen  addressed  her  by  her  maiden  name  that  was 
famous,  and  quoted  her  poems  to  her  with  softly  cadencecl 
voice ;  and  the  past  and  the  present  melted  into  one  in 
Nancy's  heart,  and  she  could  not  separate  their  beauty. 
They  drove  back  to  the  hotel  in  moved  and  grateful 
spirit.  Anne-Marie,  fluffy  and  feathery  in  her  mother's 
arms,  chatted  all  the  way  home,  for  she  had  much  to 
say. 

XXIV 

A  YEAR  of  dreamlike  travels  from  triumph  to  triumph, 
from  success  to  success,  scattered  roses  and  myrtles  at 
the  feet  of  Anne-Marie.  She  went  through  life  as  a  child 
wanders  through  a  fairy-tale  garden,  alight  with  flowers 
that  bow  and  bend  to  her  hand.  The  concerts  were  her 
joy.  Music  filled  her  soul  to  overflowing,  and,  like  a 
pure  and  chosen  vessel,  Anne-Marie  poured  it  forth 
again  upon  the  listening  world.  When  she  played  she 
was  fulfilling  her  destiny,  as  a  lark  must  sing. 

One  day  in  Genoa  she  was  taken  to  see  Paganini's 
violin,  hanging  mute  and  sealed  in  its  glass  case  at  the 
town  hall.  She  looked  at  it  silently  and  turned  away. 

"What  are  you  thinking,  dear  heart?"  said  Nancy. 
"  You  look  so  sad." 

"I  am  thinking,"  said  Anne-Marie,  with  solemn  eyes, 
"  how  it  must  hurt  that  violin  and  ache  it,  to  be  kept 
locked  up,  and  not  be  allowed  to  sing ! " 

The  remark  was  heard,  and  repeated,  and  reached  the 
ears  of  the  Mayor  of  Genoa.  One  afternoon,  with  great 


THE   DEVOURERS  307 

pomp,  Anne-Marie  was  invited  to  the  palace  of  the 
Municipio,  and,  before  a  few  invited  guests,  the  seals 
were  broken,  and  the  hallowed  instrument  of  the 
immortal  Nicolo  was  placed  in  the  little  girl's  hands. 
Anne-Marie  had  not  slept  for  three  nights  thinking  of 
that  moment,  imagining  the  joy  of  the  imprisoned  voice 
when  her  hands  should  let  it  loose. 

She  drew  a  new  E  string  quickly  over  the  tarnished 
bridge.  Now  she  plucked  lightly  at  it,  bending  her 
head  to  listen.  Then,  raising  her  bow,  she  struck  the 
bonds  of  silence  from  the  quivering  strings.  The  chord 
in  D  minor  rippled  out,  hoarse  and  feeble.  Anne-Marie 
struck  a  second  chord,  pressing  down  her  fingers  with  a 
vehement  vibrato.  Again  the  reply  came  —  muffled, 
quavering,  weak.  Anne-Marie's  face  grew  white  and 
tense.  She  removed  the  violin  from  her  shoulder  with 
a  little  sob. 

"  It  is  dead,"  she  said. 

Years  after,  if  ever  Nancy  thought  that  it  might  have 
been  better  had  Anne-Marie  been  held  back,  and  not 
been  allowed  to  play  her  heart  out  to  the  world,  the 
memory  of  the  Silent  Violin,  locked  in  its  glass  case, 
came  back  to  her  —  the  violin  that  had  died  of  its  own 
silence.  And  she  was  glad  that  her  little  skylark  had 
been  allowed  to  sing. 

And  sing  it  did,  in  many  climes  and  under  many 
skies.  Was  it  in  Turin  that  the  horses  were  taken  from 
the  carriage,  and  Anne-Marie  and  Nancy  drawn  in 
triumph  through  the  cheering,  waving  streets  ?  Was  it 
in  Bern  that  the  police  had  to  hold  the  crowd  back, 
and  clear  the  squares  for  their  plunging  horses  to  pass  ? 
Where  was  it  that  she  was  serenaded  and  called  to  the 
balcony  twenty  times  by  a  crowd  that  seemed  to  have 


308  THE  DEVOURERS 

gone  mad  ?  Where  did  men  lift  little  children  up  that 
they  might  touch  her  dress,  and  women,  jostled  in  the 
crowd,  with  hats  awry,  fight  for  a  glimpse  of  the  fair 
nodding  head,  for  a  touch  of  the  little  gloved  hand  ? 
Was  it  at  Naples  that  they  called  her  la  bambino,  assistita, 
and  thought  her  possessed  by  a  spirit,  and  begged  her 
to  predict  to  them  the  winning  numbers  of  the  following 
Saturday's  lottery  ? 

Yes,  that  was  in  Naples.  In  the  confused  glory  of 
the  shifting  scenes  some  memories  stood  out  clearly,  and 
held  Nancy's  recollection.  It  was  in  Naples  that  no 
seat  had  been  reserved  for  her  in  the  immense  and 
crowded  concert-hall,  and  that  the  manager  had  told 
her  of  a  lady  who  would  give  her  a  seat  in  her  own  box : 
box  5,  tier  2  —  Nancy  remembered  it  still.  And  when 
Anne-Marie,  duly  kissed  and  blessed,  stepped  out,  violin 
in  hand,  upon  the  platform,  Nancy  was  still  running 
along  the  empty  corridors  of  tier  2,  looking  for  box  5. 
Here  it  was!  There  was  a  lady  in  it  alone.  Nancy 
bowed  to  her  and  took  her  seat,  murmuring :  "  Grazie." 
Then,  with  tightly  folded  hands,  she  had  whispered  the 
little  prayer  she  always  said  for  God  to  help  Anne-Marie. 
And,  as  always,  the  prayer  was  answered,  for  Anne- 
Marie  played  grandly  and  suavely,  never  even  dreaming 
that  help  could  be  needed. 

Nancy  sat  in  the  box,  tense  and  terrified  as  usual, 
waiting  for  the  tranquil  eyes  of  Anne-Marie  to  wander 
round  the  auditorium  and  find  her.  There!  They 
r,<  found  her,  and  shone  and  twinkled.  Then  the  Spirit  of 
Music  dropped  its  great  wings  between  them,  and  carried 
away  little  Anne-Marie,  swinging  and  singing  her  out  of 
reach  —  out  of  reach  of  her  mother's  love,  farther  than 
Nancy  could  follow. 


THE   DEVOURERS  309 

The  lady  in  black  took  her  pocket-handkerchief  and 
pressed  it  to  her  eyes.  Nancy  was  used  to  the  gesture, 
but  it  always  moved  her.  She  put  her  hand  lightly  on 
the  arm  of  the  unknown  woman  whose  heart  her  little 
girl's  music  had  wrung. 

The  last  piece  was  ended,  and  the  well-known  cries  of 
applause  were  starting  from  all  corners  of  the  house, 
when  Nancy  rose  quickly  to  go  back  to  Anne-Marie. 
The  woman  in  black  put  back  her  veil,  and  said : 

"  My  name  is  Villari." 

Nancy  remembered  the  name.  All  that  Aldo  had  told, 
all  that  Nino  had  not  told,  years  ago  swept  into  her 
mind.  She  looked  curiously  into  the  tired  face,  under 
its  helmet  of  dark-red  tinted  hair.  There  were  many 
lines  in  the  face.  Nancy  thought  it  looked  like  a  map, 
and  along  the  many  little  lines  Nancy's  eyes  seemed  to 
travel  into  a  sad  and  distant  country.  She  put  out  her 
hand. 

"I  know  your  name  well,"  said  Nancy.  "I  salute 
the  great  artist." 

The  woman  sighed  deeply.  "I  salute  the  happy 
mother,"  she  said.  Then  she  pulled  down  her  veil  and 
_  turned  away. 

Nancy  hastened  along  the  crowded  corridors,  where 
people  in  groups  were  discussing  her  little  daughter, 
and  the  words,  "  wonderful !  marvellous  !  incredible  !  " 
beat  with  their  accustomed  soft  wing  on  her  ears. 

"  Happy  mother  ! "  Oh  yes,  she  was  a  happy  mother ! 
She  said  it  over  and  over  again,  and  repeated  it  to  her- 
self as  she  tied  the  soft  woollen  scarf  round  Anne- 
Marie's  head,  and  again  as  they  made  their  way  through 
the  cheering  crowd,  and  the  outstretched  hands,  and  the 
waving  hats.  She  repeated  it  as  she  sat  in  the  motor 


310  THE  DEVOURERS 

open  to  the  balmy  Neapolitan  night,  and  held  Anne- 
Marie  tightly  as  she  stood  up  on  the  seat,  waving  both 
small  hands  to  the  surrounding  throng.  The  little 
standing  figure  swayed  as  the  carriage  moved  swiftly 
down  the  street.  Soon  the  shouting  people  were  left 
behind,  and  Anne-Marie  slid  down  to  her  place  near 
her  mother.  Beyond  the  Gulf,  Vesuvius  breathed  its 
glowing  rhythmic  breath,  and  the  waters  glittered. 
Nancy  remembered  that  this  was  Aldo's  birthplace ;  and 
then  she  forgot  it  in  the  lilt  of  the  usual  dulcet  words  : 

"  Did  you  like  my  concert,  mother  dear  ?  " 

The  phrase  had  now  become  a  formula  which  they 
repeated  laughingly  like  the  refrain  of  a  song.  Of  all 
the  hours  of  the  rushing  turbulent  day,  this  was  the  hour 
of  joy  for  Nancy.  Anne-Marie,  who  was  elfish  and 
impish,  made  strange  by  her  music,  and  made  wild  by 
the  worship  of  many  people,  in  this  one  hour  became  a 
little  tender  child  again,  softer  and  sweeter  than  the 
day-time  Anne-Marie,  nearer  and  more  human  than  the 
concert  Anne-Marie,  who  was  a  strange,  inaccessible 
being  that  Nancy  sometimes  thought  could  not  really 
belong  to  her. 

Fraulein  and  Bemolle  followed  them  in  another  car- 
riage. No  one  since  the  impresario  had  ever  dared  to  in- 
trude upon  this  sacred  starlit  hour  of  their  love. 

Did  Nancy's  heart  ever  regret  her  own  hopes  of  glory  ? 
Did  she  remember  her  unwritten  Book  ?  Did  she  feel 
the  wounded  place  of  the  wings  that  she  had  torn  out  ? 
Never !  She  lived  for  Anne-Marie  and  in  Anne-Marie. 
Little  by  little  the  chimera  of  inspiration  drew  away  from 
her.  She  forgot  that  she  had  once  clasped  Fame  to  her 
own  breast.  No  words,  no  visions,  no  dreams  haunted 
her  any  more.  She  breathed  in  the  music  Anne-Marie 


THE  DEVOUKERS  311 

played.  She  dreamed  the  music  Anne-Marie  composed. 
The  Pied  Piper  had  passed  her  ;  his  call  dragged  at  her 
soul  no  more.  The  eagle  of  her  genius  no  more  shook 
and  shattered  her  with  the  wild  beating  of  his  wings. 
She  was  like  the  Silent  Violin  —  the  music  that  her  soul 
had  not  sung  was  dead. 

XXV 

IT  was  in  Paris  that  what  Nancy  had  so  often  vaguely 
dreaded  and  expected  happened  at  last.  She  was  alone 
in  the  hotel  in  her  own  quiet  sitting-room  when  the 
lift-boy  knocked  at  the  door,  and  on  her  careless  response 
a  visitor  was  ushered  in.  It  was  Aldo  —  Aldo  with  a 
square  beard  and  a  dangling  eyeglass,  hat  in  hand,  and 
faultlessly  attired. 

He  stood  before  her,  gazing  at  her  face.  Then  he  put 
his  hat  on  a  chair,  extended  both  hands,  and  said  in  a 
deep,  fervent  voice : 

"  Nancy ! " 

Nancy  had  risen  with  quick,  indrawn  breath,  and 
stood,  slim  and  pale,  in  her  soft-tinted  dressing-gown. 
He  took  another  step  towards  her,  still  with  both  hands 
outstretched.  Nancy  put  out  a  diffident  hand,  and  her 
husband  clasped  it  fervently  in  both  his  own.  On  his 
little  finger  was  a  diamond  ring.  He  bent  his  sleek 
black  head  over  Nancy's  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"  Thank  God ! "  he  murmured,  and  sank  into  a  chair. 

Nancy  wondered    what   he    was    thanking    God   for. 
Aldo  himself  was  not  very  clear  about  it,  but  it  seemed  __  . 
an  appropriate  thing  to  say.     And  he  had  nothing  else 
ready.     The  embarrassing  silence  was  broken  by  Aldo. 
He  said  : 


312  THE   DEVOURERS 

"  Nancy,  I  have  returned ! " 

Nancy  said,  "  Yes,"  and  thought  disconnected  thoughts 
about  his  beard  and  his  diamond  ring. 

"  You  have  thought  cruel  thoughts  of  me  during  all 
this  time  ?  " 

No,  Nancy  had  not  thought  cruel  thoughts. 

"  You  have  left  off  loving  me  ?  " 

Nancy  looked  at  him  with  vague,  dazed  eyes,  and 
smiled  without  knowing  why.  Aldo  tried  not  to  notice 
the  smile.  He  said  : 

"  Will  you  never  forgive  me  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  I  suppose  so,"  said  Nancy ;  and  she  smiled 
again. 

She  thought  it  funny  that  this  strange  man  with  the 
square  beard  and  the  dangling  eyeglass  should  be  asking 
her  to  forgive  him,  and  questioning  her  about  love. 
Nothing  about  him  seemed  in  the  least  familiar.  His  hair, 
that  used  to  be  parted  in  the  middle,  now  waved  back 
from  his  forehead ;  his  fan-shaped  beard  altered  his  face 
and  made  him  look  like  a  Frenchman;  even  his  hat, 
square  and  high  and  narrow-rimmed,  lying  on  her  chair, 
had  in  it  an  element  of  utter  strangeness. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at  ?  "  said  Aldo.  And  some 
tone  of  offended  vanity  in  his  voice  startled  her  memory, 
and  suddenly  it  was  up  and  awake. 

"I  am  not  laughing,"  said  Nancy,  and  she  began  to 
cry.  That  was  the  attitude  that  Aldo  had  expected, 
and  knew  how  to  cope  with.  A  cold,  light-eyed  woman 
with  an  ambiguous  smile  was  an  uncomfortable  and 
uncertain  thing.  But  a  woman  in  tears  was  a  sight  he 
had  often  seen,  and  he  understood  the  meaning  of  the 
bowed  head  and  the  significance  of  the  hidden  face. 
He  was  beside  her,  his  arm  round  her  narrow  shoulders. 


THE   DEVOURERS  313 

"Nancy,  don't  cry,  don't  cry!  I  have  been  a  brute. 
But  I  will  atone.  I  will  repay  you  in  happiness  a 
thousandfold  for  all  that  you  have  suffered!" 

Still  she  wept  with  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands. 

"  I  am  rich.  I  have  more  money  than  we  shall  know 
how  to  spend." 

The  heaving  shoulders  stopped  heaving.  They 
seemed  to  be  waiting,  listening.  There  was  distrust  in 
those  waiting  shoulders,  so  he  hurried  out : 

"  It  is  all  right.  I  have  not  gambled  or  done  anything 
disreputable.  The  money  has  been  left  to  me "  —  still 
the  shoulders  waited  —  "by  a  —  by  —  an  old  person 
whom  I  befriended.  She  has  died  and  left  me  her 
money.  I  deserved  it.  I  was  very  good  to  her  — " 

The  shoulders  heaved  again  in  a  deep  sigh.  Relief  ? 
Despair  ?  Aldo  was  uncertain. 

"  So  all  your  troubles  are  at  an  end,  Nancy.  I  have 
settled  enough  on  you  and  the  child,  sojthat  you  need 
no  more  exploit  Anne-Marie." 

Nancy  started  up  and  away  from  him.  "Exploit 
Anne-Marie  !  "  .  .  .  Exploit  Anne-Marie  !  Was  that 
what  he  thought  ?  Was  that  what  other  people  thought  ? 
—  that  she  was  exploiting  Anne-Marie  ? 

Nancy  covered  her  face  again  and  burst  into  wild, 
uncontrollable  sobs  of  grief.  She  cried  loud,  like  a 
child,  and  Aldo  felt  that  these  were  not  the  tears  that 
he  was  used  to  and  understood. 

In  these  tears  were  all  Nancy's  broken  hopes  and  lost 
aspirations,  all  that  she  had  sacrificed  and  stifled  and 
tried  with  prayers  and  fastings,  for  Anne-Marie's  sake, 
not  to  regret.  Her  work,  her  Book,  her  hopes  of  Fame, 
her  dreams  of  Glory,  all  that  she  had  given  up  for  love 
of  Anne-Marie,  laid  down  for  Anne-Marie's  little  feet 


314  THE  DEVOURERS 

to  trample  on,  stood  up  in  her  memory  like  murdered 
things.  She  remembered  the  beating  wings  of  herowm 
genius  that  she  had  torn  out  in  order  not  to  impede 
Anne-Marie  in  her  flight,  and  the  wounds  burned  and 
bled  again. 

"I  have  not  been  exploiting  Anne-Marie,"  she  said, 
raising  her  tear-merged  eyes  to  Aldo.  "All  that  she 
has  earned  in  her  concerts  has  been  put  away  for  her. 
It  is  sacrosanct.  No  one  has  touched  it." 

"  Then  how  have  you  lived  ?  "  he  said. 

"I  have  borrowed  money,"  she  said  defiantly  and 
angrily.  "A  lot  of  money,  which  I  shall  repay  when 
I  can." 

"  From  whom  ?  "  asked  Aldo.     Nancy  did  not  answer. 

"  You  can  repay  it  now,"  said  Aldo,  frowning.  And 
then  he  was  silent. 

The  frivolous  hotel  clock  struck  four  in  tinkling  chimes. 

"  Where  is  Anne-Marie  ?  "  asked  Aldo,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  She  is  out."  And  Nancy's  face  grew  hard  as  stone. 
"  I  do  not  want  her  to  see  you.  She  is  not  to  be  excited 
and  upset." 

"Nancy!"  —  and  Aldo's  nostrils  went  white  —  "you 
must  let  me  see  her.  I  have  longed  for  her  day  and 
night  for  the  past  three  years.  I  have  thought  of 
nothing  else.  I  have  lain  awake  hours  every  night 
planning  the  meeting  with  her.  When  I  should  be  free, 
when  I  should  be  rich"  —  Nancy  flinched  and  shivered 
—  "I  thought  of  finding  you  struggling  and  in  need. 
And  I  planned  our  meeting.  I  was  going  to  send  some- 
thing to  her  —  with  no  name  —  every  day  for  a  week 
beforehand,  every  day  something  better  than  the  day 
before.  The  first  day  only  a  box  of  sweets,  or  of 
toys.  Then  a  cageful  of  singing  birds.  Then  a  bank- 


THE  DEVOURERS  315 

book  with  money,  and  the  last  day  "  —  Aide's  eyes  were 
full  of  tears  now,  but  Nancy's  were  dry  and  hard  — 
"  it  was  to  be  a  pony-carriage  with  two  white  ponies 
and  a  stiff  little  groom  sitting  behind  "  —  Aldo's  voice 
broke  —  "  and  that  was  to  fetch  you  both  away,  away 
from  poverty,  and  misery,  and  loneliness,  and  bring  you 
back  to  me  ! " 

Aldo  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  his  tears 
fell  over  the  diamond  ring. 

"  Then  I  heard  ...  I  read  .  .  .  about  Anne-Marie  .  .  . 
and  I  would  not  go  to  hear  her.  I  could  not  go,  I  could 
not  sit  alone  .  .  .  and  see  my  own  little  girl  .  .  .  standing 
there  .  .  .  playing  to  a  thousand  strangers  .  .  .  while  I, 
her  father "  He  became  incoherent  with  grief. 

"  And  I  have  never  heard  her,  never  heard  her,"  he 
sobbed. 

Nancy's  lips  were  shut,  and  her  heart  was  shut.  She 
did  not  speak. 

Aldo  looked  at  her  through  his  swimming  orbs,  and 
wished  that  she  would  weep  too.  He  spoke  in  a  broken 
whisper. 

"  Am  I  not  to  be  forgiven  ?  Can  we  not  all  be  happy 
again  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Nancy. 

"  Do  you  mean  never  ?  "  asked  Aldo,  and  his  beard 
worked  strangely. 

"  Never,"  said  Nancy,  and  a  shudder  of  dislike  tight- 
ened her  elbows  to  her  side. 

Then  Aldo  raved  and  wept.  He  had  dreamed  of  this 
meeting  for  three  years ;  he  had  always  loved  her ; 
he  had  always  loved  Anne-Marie  ;  he  had  done  what  he 
had  done  for  her  sake  and  for  Anne-Marie;  he  had 
saved,  and  skimped,  and  schemed  for  her  and  for  Anne- 


316  THE  DEVOURERS 

Marie ;  he  could  not  have  lived  but  for  the  thought  of 
her  and  of  Anne-Marie;  and  he  would  not  live  a  day 
longer  unless  it  were  with  her  and  with  Anne-Marie  ! 

•  As  he  spoke  thus  it  was  truth,  and  became  truer  while 
he  said  it,  and  while  he  saw  her  and  felt  that  she  would 
never  be  anything  in  his  life  again. 

"  Oh,  Nancy  !  Nancy !  Nancy  !  "  He  grasped  her 
cold,  limp  hand,  and  crushed  it  in  his  own.  "You 
will  let  me  see  Anne-Marie.  You  cannot  refuse  it !  I 
shall  abide  by  what  she  says.  If  she  does  not  want  me 
I  will  go  away.  But  if  she  wants  me  —  if  she  remembers 
me  and  says  that  I  may  stay  —  promise  me  that  you  will 
let  me  !  Promise  !  promise !  I  will  not  leave  you  — 
I  will  not  leave  you  until  you  promise  !  " 

Nancy  would  not  promise. 

"Nancy,  remember  how  we  loved  each  other! 
Remember  the  days  on  Lake  Maggiore !  Remember 
when  you  were  writing  your  Book,  and  you  used  to  read 
it  to  me  in  the  evening  with  your  head  against  my  arm. 
Remember  everything,  Nancy,  and  promise  that  I  may 
see  Anne-Marie,  and  that  if  she  is  willing  you  will  let 
me  stay.  Promise,  Nancy,  promise  !  " 

But  Nancy  would  not  promise. 

"  Nancy,  have  you  forgotten  the  hard  times  in  New 
York?  The  hunger  and  the  misery  we  went  through 
together?  For  the  sake  of  those  dark  days,  the  days 
in  the  old  Schmidls  house,  and  in  the  little  flat ;  for  the 
sake  of  my  dreary  little  dark  room,  that  I  have  since  so 
often  longed  for  and  regretted,  because  I  could  see  you 
and  the  child  asleep  through  the  open  door  .  .  .  will  you 
not  promise,  Nancy  ? " 

No ;  Nancy  could  not  promise. 

"Do    you    remember     when    Anne-Marie     had    the 


THE   DEVOURERS  317 

measles  ? "  sobbed  Aldo.  "  And  she  would  only  eat 
the  food  I  cooked  ?  .  .  .  And  she  would  only  go  to  sleep 
if  she  held  my  finger  and  I  sang,  'Celeste  Ai'da!'  to 
her  ?  .  .  .  Will  you  remember  that,  and  will  you 
promise  ?  " 

Nancy  remembered  that.     And  she  promised. 

They  sat  waiting  for  Anne-Marie  to  come  back  from 
her  walk.  Neither  spoke ;  but  Aldo  took  a  little  picture- 
postcard  of  Anne-Marie  with  her  violin  that  lay  on  the 
table,  and  held  it  in  his  hand,  gazing  at  it  with  his  elbow 
on  his  knee.  Then  his  head  drooped,  and  he  sat  with 
his  forehead  pressed  against  the  little  picture. 

The  unconscious  Arbiter  of  Destinies  came  running 
along  the  hotel  passage  with  a  balloon  from  the  Bon 
Marche  tied  to  her  wrist.  It  was  a  large  red  balloon 
with  the  words  "  Bon  Marche "  in  gold  letters  on  it, 
and  it  had  caused  Fraulein  intense  mortification  as  she 
had  walked  beside  it  down  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens 
to  the  hotel. 

"People  will  recognize  you,"  she  had  said  to  Anne- 
Marie  in  the  street,  "and  they  will  not  take  you  and 
your  music  seriously  any  more.  It  is  not  for  a  great 
artist  to  walk  about  with  a  stupid  balloon." 

"It  is  not  stupider  than  any  other  balloon,"  said 
Anne-Marie,  slapping  its  red  inflated  head,  and  watching 
it  ascend  slowly  to  the  length  of  its  string.  Then  she 
pulled  it  down  again,  and  a  slight  puff  of  wind  made  it 
knock  lightly  against  Fraulein's  cheek. 

Fraulein  was  exceedingly  vexed.  "  I  cannot  imagine 
how  any  one  who  plays  the  Beethoven  Sonata  —  " 

"Which  Sonata?"  asked  Anne-Marie,  who  was  an 
adept  at  changing  the  conversation.  "The  Kreutzer 
or  the  Frtihling  ?  I  prefer  the  Kreutzer." 


318  THE  DEVOURERS 

Then  she  forcibly  inserted  her  fingers  under  Fraulein's 
hard  and  resisting  arm,  and  trotted  gaily  beside  her. 
The  balloon  bumped  lightly  against  Fraulein's  hat, 
but  Fraulein  did  not  mind;  she  merely  said  that  she 
would  have  preferred  if  "  Louvre "  had  been  written 
on  it  instead  of  "  Bon  Marche,"  which  looked  so  cheap. 

Anne-Marie  now  entered  the  sitting-room,  balloon  in 
hand.  Fraulein,  seeing  a  visitor  there,  withdrew  to 
her  room. 

Anne-Marie  was  used  to  people  calling  on  her  and 
waiting  for  her.  She  put  out  a  small  warm  hand  to 
the  stranger,  who  had  started  to  his  feet,  and  was  looking 
at  her  with  vehement,  tearful  eyes.  .  .  .  Anne-Marie 
had  seen  many  strangers  and  many  tearful  eyes.  She 
was  not  moved  or  surprised. 

"Bon  jour,"  she  said,  judging  by  the  beard. 

Then  she  went  to  her  mother.  "  Look  at  my  balloon, 
Liebstes,"  she  said,  slipping  the  string  off  her  wrist. 
The  balloon  rose  quickly  and  gently,  and  before  it  could 
be  stopped  it  was  knock-knocking  against  the  ceiling. 
Anne-Marie's  despairing  eyes  followed  it.  The  room  was 
high.  The  piece  of  string  hung  beyond  human  reach. 
Then  the  man  with  the  beard  took  her  hand,  and  said  : 

"  Anne-Marie ! " 

Anne-Marie  drew  her  hand  away,  rubbing  it  lightly 
against  her  dress. 

He  again  said :  "  Anne-Marie ! "  in  a  hoarse  voice, 
with  his  hands  clasped  together.  "Look  at  me,"  he 
said,  and  the  blue  eyes  obediently  left  the  ceiling  and 
rested  on  his  face.  "  Do  you  remember  me  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Anne-Marie  promptly  and  unveraciously. 
She  had  often  been  chided  by  Fraulein  for  saying  an 
abrupt  "  no "  on  these  occasions.  "  It  is  rude  to  say 


THE  DEVOUREKS  319 

'no 'and  it  hurts  people's  feelings.  You  must  say:  'I 
am  not  sure  ...  I  think  I  remember  .  .  .'  Fraulein  had 
admonished.  "  Oh,  if  I  must  not  say  no,  I  had  better 
say  yes,"  said  Anne- Marie,  who  believed  in  being  brief. 
And  so  she  did  on  this  occasion. 

The  hot  blood  had  rushed  like  a  flame  to  Aldo's  face. 
He  dropped  upon  his  knee  and  took  her  hands,  pressing 
them  to  his  eyes,  and  to  his  forehead,  and  to  his  lips. 
"  My  little  girl !  My  little  girl ! "  he  said,  and  the  quick 
southern  tears  flowed.  Anne-Marie  said  to  herself: 
"  He  must  be  a  German  musician."  Only  German  musi- 
cians had  been  as  demonstrative  as  this.  And  she  looked 
round  to  her  mother,  but  her  mother's  face  was  turned 
away. 

"  May  I  stay  —  may  I  stay,  Anne-Marie  ?  You  don't 
want  me  to  go  away  again,  do  you  ?  Tell  your  mother 
that  you  want  me  to  stay  with  you  and  take  care  of 
you ! " 

Now  it  was  for  Anne-Marie  to  be  bewildered. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  taken  care  of,  thank  you,"  she 
said,  as  politely  as  she  could. 

Aldo  laughed  through  his  tears.  "  Dear,  funny  little 
child  of  mine, "  he  cried,  kissing  her  hand  and  her  sleeve. 

Anne-Marie  was  matter-of-fact.  "  Good-bye,"  she  said 
decisively.  "  If  you  want  an  autograph,  I  will  give  you 
one." 

Aldo  caught  her  by  both  arms,  gazing  into  her  face 
with  blurred  eyes.  "  Anne-Marie  !  Anne-Marie !  you 
said  you  remembered  me !  Don't  you  know  who  I  am  ? 
Don't  you  remember  your  father,  Anne-Marie,  who  used 
to  sing  '  Celeste  A'ida,  forma  divina '  to  you  when  you 
were  ill,  and  who  took  you  to  see  the  squirrels  in  the 
park  ?  Anne-Marie,  don't  you  remember  me  ?  " 


320  THE   DEVOURERS 

Anne-Marie's  underlip  trembled.  She  shook  her  head. 
Aldo  rose  from  his  knees.  He  turned  away  and  hid  his 
face  in  his  hands. 

Anne-Marie  tiptoed  to  her  mother's  side,  and  nestled 
in  her  encircling  arm.  Then  her  eyes  wandered  upwards 
in  search  of  the  balloon.  There  it  was,  close  to  the 
ceiling.  Anne-Marie  thought  that  it  looked  smaller  than 
it  was  before.  She  wondered  how  she  would  ever  get  it 
down  again. 

Nancy  had  .turned  her  face  —  a  pinched  white  face 
that  also  looked  smaller,  thought  Anne-Marie  —  towards 
her,  and  spoke  in  a  low  voice. 

"Anne-Marie,  he  is  your  father." 

"  Is  he  ?  "  said  Anne-Marie,  glancing  at  the  tall  figure 
with  the  sloping  shoulders  and  the  hidden  face,  and  then 
at  the  hat  on  the  chair. 

"  Shall  he  stay  with  us  ? "  questioned  Nancy  under 
her  breath. 

"  With  us  two  ? "  asked  Anne-Marie,  with  round, 
troubled  eyes,  and  remembering  the  impresario. 

"With  us  two." 

"  For  always  ?  "  and  Anne-Marie's  eyes  were  larger  and 
more  troubled. 

"  For  always,"  said  Nancy. 

Anne-Marie  glanced  at  the  man  again  and  at  the  hat 
again.  Then  she  put  her  cheek  against  her  mother's 
arm,  as  she  always  did, when  she  asked  a  favour.  "  Rather 
not,  Liebstes,"  she  whispered. 

The  Arbiter  had  spoken. 

Aldo  said  only  a  few  words  more  to  Nancy.  He 
placed  his  hands  on  Anne-Marie's  head,  and  looked  at  her 
a  long  time.  Then  he  turned  suddenly,  took  up  his 
square  hat,  and  left  the  room. 


THE  DEVOURERS  321 

"  That  was  a  strange  man,"  said  Anne-Marie.  "  Was 
he  really  my  father  ?  " 

Xancy,  with  pale  lips,  said  :  "  Yes." 

"  Are  you  sure  ?  "  questioned  Anne-Marie,  raising  her 
eyes  to  the  balloon. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  said  Nancy ;  and  her  tears  fell. 

Suddenly  Anne-Marie  flew  to  the  door.  "Father!" 
she  cried  in  a  shrill  treble  voice. 

Aldo,  on  the  stairs,  heard  and  stood  still.  His 
hand  gripped  the  bannisters,  his  heart  leaped  to  his 
throat. 

"  Father !  " 

He  turned  slowly,  doubtingly. 

"  Father ! "  came  the  treble  voice  again ;  and  he 
mounted  the  steps,  and  went  trembling  and  stumbling 
along  the  passage.  Anne-Marie  was  standing  at  the 
door. 

"Do  you  think,"  she  said,  "you  could  catch  my 
balloon  before  you  go  ?  " 

He  caught  her  balloon.  Then  he  went  —  out  of  the 
room,  out  of  their  lives,  out  of  the  story. 


XXVI 

*  #  *  #  * 

"MiNA  DE  I/AGUA. 

"NANCY,  — The  years  and  the  yearning  are  over.  I  am 
leaving  for  Europe.  You  will  come  to  meet  me  in 
Genoa;  and  we  shall  sit  on  the  balcony  where  three 
years  ago  you  told  me  of  your  Book,  which  you  feared 
would  die  like  a  babe  unborn  in  your  breast. 

"  I  am  coming  to  take  you  to   Porto   Venere,  '  white 


322  THE   DEVOUPvERS 

in  the  sunshine  —  tip-tilted  over  the  sea ' ;  and  the  Book 
shall  live  at  last. 

"  And  we,  also,  shall  live.  Oh,  Nancy,  Nancy !  I 
have  been  a  silent  and  a  lonely  man  so  long,  that  my 
love  has  no  words,  my  happiness  no  language.  Even 
now  I  can  hardly  believe  that  the  years  of  exile  and 
solitude  are  over.  But  I  know  that  you,  having  loved 
me  once,  still  love  me  and  will  love  me.  I  know  that 
your  heart  is  not  a  heart  that  changes,  and  that  the 
words  that  drew  you  to  me  across  the  ocean  three  years 
ago  will  bring  you  to  me  again.  Nancy,  come  to  me. 
To  my  empty  arms,  to  my  sad  and  solitary  heart,  Nancy, 
come  at  once.  And  for  ever." 


"  DEAR  OGEE,  dear  friend  and  love  of  mine,  your  call 
has  shaken  my  soul.  All  my  longings,  all  my  dreams, 
have  joined  their  voices  with  yours,  crying  to  me  to  go 
to  you.  Alas !  a  little  prayer  that  Fraulein  used  to  make 
me  say  when  I  was  a  child  whispers  to  me,  and  its 
small  voice  drowns  the  cry  of  my  desires.  It  is  the 
prayer  of  the  Three  Angels  that  stand  round  one's  bed 
in  the  night : 

"  '  One  holds  my  hands,  One  holds  my  feet, 
And  the  Third  One  holds  my  heart.' 

"Can  I  come  to  you  when  I  am  thus  bound  — 
bound  hands  and  feet  by  Law  and  Church  ?  My  small 
conventional  soul  shrinks  from  the  unlawful  and  the 
forbidden. 

"  But,  believe  me,  were  I  free  as  air,  were  my  hands 
unbound  to  lie  in  yours,  my  feet  unloosed  to  fly  to  you, 
the  Third  Angel  remains.  <And  the  Third  One  holds 


THE   DEVOURERS  323 

my  heart.'  Anne-Marie  is  the  Third  Angel.  Anne- 
Marie  holds  my  heart.  How  could  I  bring  her  with  me  ? 
Think  and  reply  for  me.  How  could  I  leave  her  ? 
Think  and  reply.  Dear  Ogre,  I  am  one  of  the  Devoured. 
Little  Anne-Marie  has  devoured  me,  and  it  is  right  that 
it  should  be  so ;  she  has  absorbed  me,  and  I  am  glad ; 
she  has  consumed  me,  and  I  am  grateful.  For  it  is  in 
the  nature  of  things  that  to  these  lives  given  to  us,  our 
lives  should  be  given.  What  matter  that  I  fall  back  into 
the  shadow  —  my  course  not  run,  my  goal  not  reached, 
my  mission  unfulfilled  ?  Anne-Marie  will  have  what  I 
have  missed;  Anne-Marie  will  reach  the  completeness 
that  has  failed  me ;  for  her  will  be  the  heights  I  have 
not  conquered,  the  Glory  I  have  not  attained. 

"  Oh,  lover  and  friend  of  mine,  understand  and  forgive 
me.  There  is  no  room  for  love  in  my  life.  My  life  is 
full  of  haste  and  turmoil,  full  of  Kings  and  Queens,  full 
of  rushing  trains,  and  shouting  voices,  and  clapping 
hands.  .  .  . 

"  Can  you  not  see  it  all  as  in  a  picture  —  the  Pied 
Piper  whistling  and  dancing  on  ahead;  little  Anne- 
Marie,  Fame-drunken,  music-struck,  whirlwinding  after 
him;  and  I  following  them  in  breathless,  palpitant 
haste,  leaving  all  that  was  once  mine  behind  me  —  my 
Books,  my  Dreams,  my  Love  ?  .  .  .  Love  in  the  pic- 
ture is  not  a  rose-crowned  god  of  laughter  and  passion. 
Love  is  a  lonely  figure,  lonely  and  stern  and  sad.  Oh, 
love,  forgive  me,  and  understand !  And  say  good-bye  — 
good-bye  to  Nancy ! " 

He  forgave  her,  and  understood,  and  said  good-bye  to 
Nancy. 


p 


324  THE   DEVOURERS 


XXVII 

THE  days  swung  on.  And  they  swung  Anne-Marie  from 
triumph  to  triumph.  And  they  poured  sunshine  into 
her  hair,  and  sea-shine  into  her  eyes.  And  they  reared 
her  into  fulgent  maidenhood,  as  a  white  lily  is  reared  on 
a  fragile  stem. 

They  swung  Nancy  back  into  the  shadow  where 
mothers  sit  with  gentle  hands  folded,  and  eyes  whose 
tears  no  one  counts.  She  learned  to  forget  that  she  had 
even  known  a  poem  about  "  La  belle  qui  vent,  la  belle 
qui  n'ose,  ceuillir  les  roses  du  jardin  bleu ! "  The  blue 
garden  of  youth  closed  its  gates  silently  behind  her, 
1  and  the  roses  that  Nancy's  hand  had  not  gathered  would 
bloom  for  her  no  more. 

'But  for  Anne-Marie,  when  the  time  was  ripe,  the 
ied  Piper  tossed  his  flute  to  another  Player.  Anne- 
Marie  stood  still  and  listened  to  the  new  call  —  the  far- 
away call  of  Love.  Soon  she  faltered,  and  turned  and 
followed  the  silver-toned  call  of  Love. 


XXVIII 

THE  carriage  that  was  to  take  the  bride  and  bridegroom 
to  the  station  was  waiting  in  the  Tuscan  sunlight,  sur- 
rounded by  the  laughing,  impatient  crowd.  As  Anne- 
Marie  appeared  —  her  rose-lit  face  half  hidden  in  her 
furs,  her  travelling-hat  poised  lightly  at  the  back  of  her 
shining  head  —  the  crowd  shouted  and  cheered,  just  as 
it  had  always  done  after  her  concerts.  And  she  smiled 
and  nodded,  and  said,  " Good-bye!  Good-bye!  Thank 


THE   DEVOURERS  325 

you,  and  good-bye  !  "  just  as  she  always  did  at  the  close 
of  her  concerts.  The  bridegroom,  tall  and  serious 
beside  her,  would  have  liked  to  hurry  her  into  the 
carriage,  but  she  took  her  hand  from  his  arm  and  stopped, 
turning  and  smiling  to  the  right  and  to  the  left,  shaking 
hands  with  a  hundred  people  who  knew  her  and  loved 
and  blessed  her.  With  one  foot  on  the  carriage-step, 
she  still  nodded  and  smiled  and  waved  her  hand.  Then 
the  young  husband  lifted  her  in,  jumped  in  beside  her, 
and  shut  the  carriage-door.  Cheers  and  shouts  and 
waving  hats  followed  them  as  the  horses,  striking  fire 
from  their  hoofs,  broke  into  a  gallop,  and  carried  them 
down  the  street  and  out  of  sight. 

.  .  .  Nancy  had  not  left  the  house.  She  had  not  gone 
to  the  window.  She  could  hear  the  cheers  and  the 
laughter,  and  for  a  moment  she  pictured  herself  with 
Anne-Marie  in  the  carriage,  driving  home  after  the 
concerts  —  Anne-Marie  still  nodding,  first  out  of  one 
window,  then  out  of  the  other,  laughing,  waving  her 
hand ;  then  falling  into  her  mother's  arms  with  a  little 
sigh  of  delight.  At  last  they  were  alone  —  alone  after 
all  the  crowd  —  in  the  darkness  and  the  silence,  after  all 
the  noise  and  light.  And  Anne-Marie's  hand  was  in 
hers ;  Anne  Marie's  soft  hair  was  on  her  breast.  Again 
the  well-known  dulcet  tones :  "  Did  you  like  my  concert, 
Liebstes  ?  Are  you  happy,  mother  dear  ? "  Then 
silence  all  the  way  home — home  to  strange  hotels,  no 
matter  in  what  town  or  in  what  land.  It  was  always 
home,  for  they  were  together. 

k       Nancy  stepped  to  the  window,  both  hands  held  tightly 

'   to  her  heart.     The  road  was   empty.     The  house  was 

empty.     The    world  was  empty.     Then  she  cried,  loud 

and  long  —  cried,  stretching  her   arms   out  before  her, 


326  THE   DEVOURERS 

kneeling  by  the    window:    "Oh,   my   little  girl!     My 
own    child!      What    shall    I     do?      What     shall    I 
do?" 
But  there  was  nothing  left  for  Nancy  to  do, 

Now  it  was  late.     Her  Book  was  dead.     Her  child 
had  left  her.     And  the  blue  garden  was  closed. 


BOOK  III 


ANNE-MARIE  stirred,  sighed,  and  awoke. 

The  room  was  dim  and  silent.  But  soon  a  gentle, 
rhythmical  sound  fell  on  her  ears,  and  pleased  her.  It 
was  a  soft,  regular  sound,  like  the  ticking  of  a  clock, 
like  the  beating  of  a  heart  —  it  was  the  rocking  of  a 
cradle. 

Anne-Marie  smiled  to  herself,  and  her  soul  sank  into 
peacefulness.  The  gentle  clicking  sound  lulled  her  near 
to  sleep  again.  She  was  utterly  at  peace — utterly 
happy.  Life  opened  wider  portals  over  wider  shining 
lands. 

Then,  with  the  awakening  of  memory,  came  the 
thought  of  her  violin.  With  a  soft  tremor  of  joy,  she 
realized  that  the  brief  silence  of  the  past  year  was  over. 
Music  would  stream  again  from  her  hands  over  the  world. 

Her  violin  !  Under  her  closed  lashes  she  thought  of 
it.  She  could  see  the  gold-brown  curves  of  the  volute, 
the  soft  swing  of  the  F's,  the  tense,  sensitive  strings 
resting  on  the  lithe,  slim  bridge  —  all  waiting  for  her, 
waiting  for  the  touch  of  her  wild  young  fingers  to  spring 
into  life  and  song  again. 

The  tears  welled  into  her  closed  eyes.  How  she 
would  work  !  What  songs,  what  symphonies  she  would 
create !  How  much  she  would  say  that  nobody  had 
yet  said.  .  .  . 

327 


328  TIIE  DEVOUKERS 

L  ~~^Sx 

Already  Inspiration,  nebulous  and  wan,  laid  soft 
hands  upon  her  —  drawing  faint  harmonies,  like  floating 
ribbons,  through  her  brain.  Then  joy  rushed  through 
her  like  a  living  thing,  and  she  saw  her  life  before  her. 

She  would  ascend  the  wide  white  road  of  Immortality 
with  Love  upholding  her,  with  Genius  burning  and 
exalting  her  like  a  flaming  star  that  had  fallen  into  her 
soul.  .  .  . 

In  the  shadowy  cradle  the  baby  opened  its  eyes  and 
said  :  "  I  am  hungry." 


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